


Angel of Music and Ice

by MindYourMind



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Crossover, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death (because PHANTOM), Phantom of the Opera AU, Set in 1880s Paris, Slow Burn, Violence, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8908915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindYourMind/pseuds/MindYourMind
Summary: Times are changing at the Ice Castle Opera. Chorus singer and dancer Yuuri Katsuki knows the mysterious Opera Ghost, Victor Nikiforov, will brook no cheek from new management.Will Yuri Plisetsky, now a rich gentleman, remember Yuuri, the little innkeeper's boy? Must Yuuri choose between pleasing his mentor and reconnecting with his childhood friend? COMPLETED.





	1. Dappled Gold and Brown

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Yuri!!! on Ice, or any of the characters. All I got is imagination and a bit o' insomnia.
> 
> Note: Unbeta'd. Yuuri K is still 23 and Phichit is still 20, but Victor is aged up to 33 and Yuri P is aged up to 21. If you want to know whether this fic's endgame is Yuuri K/Yuri P or Yuuri K/Victor, see the very end of the note at the bottom. If you want to be surprised, don't read past the warning.
> 
> Every Yuri!!! on Ice character introduced steps into the role of a Phantom of the Opera character, except Minako, Yuuko, Takeshi, Mila, Mickey, and Sara. I just threw them in because I love these girls and because we all know if Yuuko and Sara are there, so are Takeshi and Mickey. Mari doesn't exist in this fic because if she did, Yuuri wouldn't have needed a guardian at the opera. She's fierce, that girl.
> 
> I play loose and fast with this AU, most actual Phantom-related content is from the 2004 movie (which was a pretty loose adaption to begin with). Each chapter's title will reference a costume from either the anime or the 2004 movie. This chapter's reference is [Christine and Meg's outfits as backup dancers in Hannibal](http://cineplex.media.baselineresearch.com/images/173564/173564_full.jpg). Which I *never* noticed until now featured animal prints. ;)
> 
> This fic is rated teen and up for language (Yuri, naturally). And because, while there will be no sex, you can bet things are gonna get pretty charged when we get to this fic's equivalent of Point of No Return. (You just imagined Yuuri [in this dress](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/90/fa/91/90fa91827dcfeee5abfac6a4fb1299e7.jpg), didn't you? You're welcome for the mental image.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Constructive criticism is welcome, it hones my craft.

The musicians were slow to start their warm-ups, many of them still filing in with flasks hidden midst their coats and instruments and papers. So Yuuri had to imagine his own music for dancing practice. In his head, the first few notes fell tentatively, like the first raindrops dampening the earth. Then the melody swelled and took firm grip of his limbs. 

Tapping feet or snapping fingers to keep time and sequence, he bent and rose, stretched and swayed, spun and undulated, until he finally felt like he was at home. 

This was not the first dress rehearsal for "Hannibal" -- after all, the opera was poised to enthrall a full house later that evening. 

But the costumes that he, Phichit, Yuuko, and Mila were given tried his patience. They were harder to grow used to than a new, stiff pair of shoes. The pieces weren't poorly made; the mock turquoise in metal fittings, overlaying jaguar or leopard print, was perfect for a host of retainers sweeping in the wake of a general. Exactly the sort of exotic, fascinating thing their Parisian audience would soak up with sparkling eyes. 

But there simply wasn't _enough_ costume. A large collar sewn to a bit of embroidered linen across the chest, and a matching girdle about the hips. From the girdle cascaded wispy pennants of see-through material, flowing free like skirts for the girls, and bound at the ankles like trousers for the boys. Their arms, midriffs, and legs were quite visible, and it made Yuuri feel self-conscious. 

_Ah, well,_ he tried to comfort himself. He was simply a dime-a-dozen backup dancer in this role; he didn't have any lines and only joined the chorus here and there. He wouldn't draw too much embarrassing attention from amidst the throng, at least.

He glanced to the side, awaiting his three partners in a four-person cell. He was a trifle annoyed that Phichit and Yuuko seemed more engaged in talking than stretching, as other dancers and stage hands bustled about them. Yuuko played with the locks of chestnut hair dancing about her ears, while Phichit triple-knotted the lacings of his shoes. 

Mila wasn't even pretending to stretch, instead arguing with Minako about her costume. Apparently the redhead was hoping to display even _more_ of her midriff. Minako was lamenting that they were already quite pushing the sensibilities of their audience as it was. Art could violate boundaries only so much before people started feeling their convictions prickling. 

The four of them had practiced their steps often, could dance in sync in their sleep. Minako had been crucial to keeping them in line, juggling sewing seams with swift fingers and critiquing their form with a swifter tongue. But that didn't assuage Yuuri's need to cement their skill together further. He was certain you could never practice too much, there was always a chance of a mistake that you needed to hammer out with diligence. 

A flutter of movement above his head caught his eye. Swiftly, he looked up, freezing in the moment. Movement from on high could mean the stage hands were actually doing their job.

Or it could mean the Opera Ghost requested your attention, and woe betide you if you ignored him.

A flash of silvery white. Yuuri blinked reflexively, then saw a folded piece of paper spiraling down toward him. He waited till it lighted on the floor a couple feet in front of him, then swooped in to grab it. The ghost of the ice had been sending more notes lately, some falling down from ropes and rafters, like in this case. Some tucked away in places Yuuri liked to frequent to be alone with his thoughts. He'd even found a note tied to the collar of the poodle Makkachin, who wandered about behind the scenes, begging scraps from the kitchen and keeping the young homesick dancers company.

This note had silver ribbon binding it. _Always the silver._ Yuuri had an inkling the Opera Ghost preferred he keep the ribbons, so out of habit he tucked the ribbon under his collar. Unfolding the note, he read,

_Remember our lessons, especially our last one. You will most probably put them to very good use tonight. You have a voice begging to be heard, Yuuri; it simply needs to break out of the confines your mind sets upon it. Let it pour forth, let it captivate others the same way your body does when you dance._

_Yours Affectionately,  
Ghost of the Ice_

_P. S. - Your costume is exceedingly fetching, Yuuri. I cannot fathom why you seem to dislike it. It is dappled, as if it were made for the shadows of the jungle. Quite perfect for quiet, wild young thing like you._

"Jungle? Wild?" Yuuri said aloud, raising an eyebrow. He glanced up, noticing first Mila, Phichit, and Yuuko all gathered round him expectantly, and second the giant elephant prop being rolled into place near the back of the stage. _Ah, yes, I suppose that's where the ghost got the jungle idea_ , he thought. _But whatever made him think of_ wild _?_

"What did the Opera Ghost say this time, Yuuri?" Mila asked, eyes alight with curiosity and mischief, as she tried to hike her costume up without Minako's notice. The ghost only left notes for Celestino, who was Yuuri's and Phichit's adoptive guardian, or Yuuri himself. Mila was a trifle envious of the note, yet a trifle glad the attention of the ghost wasn't focused on her. Though the Opera Ghost respected Celestino far more than anyone else (including the opera's management), he was quite strident with him at times.

Yuuri couldn't find his voice at first. Their little group parted through the middle to let two other dancers pass through. Finally, he took a deep breath and answered, "He says I'm going to sing tonight." Phichit smiled and put his arm round Yuuri's shoulders. Phichit's dark olive skin almost matched the brown of the animal print. 

Yuuri looked at him with gratitude, then swallowed, suddenly wishing for a glass of wine. "And I don't think he means just joining the chorus now and then, either," Yuuri added. Phichit looked even more delighted, and Yuuri felt a weight settling about his heart. Phichit's optimism was a bit draining at times. 

Yuuri focused his eyes on Yuuko. Her own eyes grew thoughtful, a guarded reaction to match his. _Bless you, Yuuko._ She tapped her lips, a nervous gesture that she and Yuuri shared, along with covering nose and mouth whenever they were startled or upset. Yuuri wasn't sure if he'd picked the habits up from her, or she from him. 

"That's intriguing," she said. "I don't see how that's going to come to pass. But then, none of us thought that . . ." She trailed off, but it was too late; now even Phichit was feeling renewed anxiety they were all trying to keep at bay. 

"That cranky old Yakov would suffer anyone to supplant him as manager so soon?" Mila finished. She motioned for Yuuko to help her adjust her ponytail, and Yuuko obliged, tugging gently. "Indeed, and yet the Opera Ghost told Celestino to be ready for that three months hence."

Yuuri again took a deep breath to steady himself. Regime changes were scary in any place devoted to the arts. Would their new managers allow everyone, dancer, singer, musician, prop and set designer, costume designer, to follow wherever creativity led them? Would they know how guide the Ice Castle Opera to continued success? 

And would they try to defy the Opera Ghost?

"I think we can depend upon it, Yuuri. Some way or another, you're singing tonight," said Mila, continuing on a subject that felt more grounding. She finished fussing over her collar and bust. "It is the ghost's decree."

"And you'll be splendid!" said Yuuko and Phichit in tandem. Splendid was a favorite word of Mila's, and so the other three made a game of using it around her as often as possible.

"Well," said Yuuri, already feeling he needed to get moving if his emotions were ever going to settle, "I know, quite surely, that we're dancing tonight. So please, let's practice."

Phichit's smile was back again, and he bowed in assent to Yuuri. As one, the four of them took starting positions. Yuuri snapped his fingers, and they were off. Phichit and Yuuri glided around each other on one side, while Mila and Yuuko mirrored their movements opposite them. They swayed back and forth, the movements making Yuuri think of palm trees in a horrific gale thrashing them this way and that. Then the four of them split and arched, and then switched off so that Yuuko joined Yuuri, and Mila joined Phichit.

Finally, finally, the musicians had gathered their wits and wills and began the first bars of the last act, for some unknown reason.

"Maybe," Phichit called to Yuuri over Mila's shoulder, "you can impress our new managers with your voice." He and Mila took turns spinning each other around. Yuuri nearly forgot what Phichit said as he spun with Yuuko. 

Yuuko was smiling, and Yuuri was remembering how they used to spin each other as long as they could stand it when the were little. When Yuuri first came to the opera house with a letter to Celestino from his deceased mother. When Celestino had taken him in as his own ward, along with Phichit. When Minako and Yuuko had all-but adopted him as well. 

His thoughts jerked away from the past when Phichit went on, "Maybe you'll impress them enough that they'll listen to you, Yuuri, if you explain about the Opera Ghost."

Mila laughed merrily, patting Phichit's head before they parted ways to dance singly again. "No one is going to listen to any of our ghost stories, my dear. They'll have to discover the truth of it for themselves."

Yuuko parted from Yuuri with a wink. As he started his favorite step sequence on his own, he noticed Yuuko lock eyes with her husband, down amidst the musicians. Takeshi shifted his cello in his grip, winked at them both, then shuffled over to tap the shoulder of the conductor and whisper something to him. The conductor wrapped up the last number abruptly, then started his little flock halfway through the correct musical accompaniment for their dance. 

Yuuri had to repeat a sequence or two before the music caught up to him, but he sent a grateful smile to the conductor and Takeshi. He glanced around and noticed other cells of four dancers had taken the hint and started earning their keep. The stage was filled with grace and life.

Yuuri closed his eyes, perfectly content, perfectly at ease, and let the music take him where it willed.

The moment only lasted about thirty seconds.

"A moment of your attention, please!" Yakov's booming shout rang up to the rafters and back. The music faltered, then stilled like a dying heartbeat, and murmurs bubbled like fumes wafting up from alcohol.

Yuuri bit his lip, stopping short mid-spin. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Off to the side of the stage, Yakov was striding past dancer, propmaster, and errand runner alike, with three strange but well-dressed men trailing behind him. The four gentlemen then took a stance in front of the conductor, like a line of officers at a battle about to begin. Yakov nodding to the conductor before turning to all of the gathered staff.

"Hello, everyone,” he said. His hair was in disarray, as usual. His clothes were quiet but immaculate greys and browns, as usual. His affectionate glare was as grilling and potent, as usual. But there were no worrying lines about his forehead any more. Clearly, impending retirement suited him. “Allow me to introduce your new--"

Yuuri missed whatever words came next from Yakov. He looked into the face of the shortest man, standing a little apart from Yakov and the two others. Yuuri saw a visage familiar, but changed to bear stronger and sharper lines. 

Yuuri he felt as if water were filling his ears. He knew tears were gathering in his eyes. He studied light blue, no, blue-green eyes set with a firm, determined edge. Lips half-pouting, half-grimacing. Strands of delicate blonde hair fanning out to frame his jawline. An impatient, put-upon expression, signaling that life was a series of one irritation after another. An elegant but stubborn stance, bracing against the universe and everyone in it.

Yuri. After ten years of separation, there was Yuri standing before him.

Yuuri distinctly remembered a nine-year-old bearing that look of defiance against all and sundry. Now the boy had to be at least twenty. The boy had befriended him at his father's inn, back in the days when both of Yuuri's parents were still alive. 

Back when Yuuri spent much of his time running and laughing at the beach, his best companions the salt, the sand, the wind. Back when Yuuri's father was still hale and drank in moderation. When Yuuri's mother was vivacious and played violin for the guests. When all of them cooked French and Japanese dishes as a family.

This other Yuri was so different, so standoffish, and yet they had struck a chord in each other anyway. Neither boy had been fluent in French, and so oftentimes they would chant Japanese or Russian at each other accompanied with gestures. (Yuri yelled more often than not.) For almost a month, Yuri's noble grandfather left him in their charge, and Yuuri grew to know what having a brother was like. 

An irascible brother with a penchant for fighting when there was nothing to fight about, but a brother nonetheless. They played games with Yuuri's father and made treats to surprise Yuuri's mother. Yuuri had cried when the other Yuri left. But Yuri had held out until after the carriage door shut. Then he looked back at the Japanese Yuuri with a red, tear-stained face through the window, yelling at him to go back inside the inn to his family already.

All the memories of those happy days streamed through his mind as Yuuri's vision blurred. He felt a hand lightly press his shoulder. “It's alright, breathe,” he heard Mila reminding him. Yuuri realized she was mistaking his quiet distress for worry about the new managers.

Her gesture did serve its purpose, though. Yuuri was back to minding the present, gently shook his head and blinked back the water before it could spill from his eyes. He tried to focus on the gentlemen who would replace Yakov. Mila's hand retreated.

“We are interminably delighted with all we see here thus far,” one of the men was saying. Yuuri blinked again; both strangers were quite tall, practically dwarfing Yakov at their sides. 

The man speaking wore the very latest Parisian fashion, a quiet grey coat over the most ostentatious clash of purple and blue for his waistcoat and Ascot-knotted cravat. His sandy brown hair tapered to yellow, like it had been dipped in bleach. It looked mussed with great care. Already Yuuri could overhear Yuuko muttering in disbelieving envy over the length of his eyelashes.

“And,” the other tall man added, sweeping one arm aside, “we are quite honored to have the pleasure of watching you bring the Ice Castle to life henceforward.” He was as dark and formal and otherworldly as a crone playing undertaker, though thankfully less ostentatious than his friend. He seemed fond of purple as well, given his dark lavender jabot. His exaggerated movements gave Yuuri the impression he had a history in theater already.

 _They will be just the sort of managers for Jean-Jacques Leroy,_ Yuuri thought. He looked around for their lead tenor and main attraction, but was shocked to find no sign of him. Jean-Jacques loved to test patience by being tardy to everything save the actual show, but this was a new record.

“In addition to Messieurs Giacometti and Popovich taking over for me from today onward, we have a new patron for the Ice Castle,” Yakov went on. “May I introduce the young Vicomte, Yuri Plisetsky. He is a personal friend of mine, so don't any of you try to pretend to be anything you aren't. He'll see right through you.” He tapped his cane three times against the wooden floorboards, then looked pointedly at Mila by Yuuri's side. He nodded to Minako, who was helping with a wardrobe mishap near the elephant prop. “He probably already knows you by reputation. Vicomte, if you would like to say a few words?”

“What is there to say, Yakov?” said Yuri, voice nothing like Yuuri remembered. His tone was almost as wooden as the boards beneath them, neither overtly rude nor especially polite. “I don't want art to die, so I keep it alive with my money. You all just keep on doing what you should do, and we'll all get along as well we might.”

Yuuri had to blink yet again. Strange though the voice was, the words perfectly suited the grown-up version of his friend. Terse, to-the-point, no finer feelings betrayed. He could remember Yuri's rants against learning to hold bland conversation in company. He didn't even realize he was smiling until Phichit whispered to him, “Why are you smiling? He doesn't seem agreeable at all. Looks as if he'll burst a blood vessel any minute.”

Yuuko was faster at connecting stray threads. “He's that friend who stayed with you for a month a long time ago, isn't he?” she said, leaning in to set her chin on the shoulder that Mila had squeezed before. “Wasn't his name Yuri, too?”

Yuuri nodded, still staring at the young Vicomte, who was adjusting his gloves carefully to avoid making eye contact with curious onlookers. 

Mila and Phichit both let escape a muted, “Oh.” 

“He doesn't remember me.” Yuuri couldn't stop himself from sagging, hands and feet feeling leaden.

“Oh,” said Mila.

“Perhaps it's just because you've changed so much,” said Phichit. Yuuko nodded, her chin jiggling Yuuri's shoulder a bit. Phichit added, “Also, you're in a crowd. And you're in costume.”

“Didn't you hear Yakov?” Yuuri asked, turning to pin Phichit with his gaze. Phichit's eyes widened slightly. “He said the Vicomte knows us by reputation. He's already heard of me, but has forgotten all about the other Yuuri from ten years ago. Yakov would have introduced us by now, if he knew me.”

“Oh,” said Mila again.

“Oh, Yakov!” A familiar shout almost shook the rafters as much as Yakov's announcement had moments earlier. Half of the people on the stage suppressed groans. The other half did not. Most of them turned to stare at the newcomer stomping up from the back of the stage, like a stag seeking out a mate. “Would you care to introduce me to our new managers and patron?”

“Now the self-proclaimed king deigns to make his entrance, right when 'twill have the most impact,” said Mila, undoing her red ponytail with a smirk.

Yuuri couldn't help but roll his eyes. To his astonishment, he caught the Russian Yuri making the same gesture, while everyone else was watching Jean-Jacques Leroy. Yuuri kept his gaze fixed ahead; he found it easier to suffer Jean-Jacques if he kept him out of his field of vision.

Growling slightly, Yakov boomed, “Ah, Jean-Jacques, there you are. I was beginning to think you ill. But perish the thought, you find us now and you are perfectly well. Here, gentlemen, is our esteemed, beloved, team-committed primo uomo, Jean-Jacques Leroy.”

Yuuri smiled; he didn't need to see Yakov's face to know Yakov's expression was both annoyed and jovial. _Yakov must be so relieved to never speak with Jean-Jacques again after this._

“Gentleman, I am entranced!” Yuuri heard Jean-Jacques declare. “Have you had a chance to see or hear how our Hannibal is coming along?” To Yuuri's dismay, Jean-Jacques sped his way past everyone to stand before Yakov, Giacometti, Popovich, and Yuri. He blocked the Vicomte from Yuuri's view.

Jean-Jacques cut a striking figure. He wore a red and green striped mantle with gold tassels and baubles hanging all about, and a red and gold headdress almost as tall as a small child. But that simply wasn't enough. He also struck a pose to show the cut of the mantle to its best advantage. He was a king and conqueror, minus crown and territory. He had the crowing down admirably, though.

“Yes,” Giacometti answered with a pleasant smile. “I am quite impressed with the quality of the dance.”

“Indeed,” Popovich agreed, sweeping an arm again. “The choreography, the skill of the dancers themselves, is superb!”

“You have Celestino and Minako to thank for that,” said Yakov. “Celestino, my good man, come here and take some of the credit before Minako steals it all.”

Yuuri glanced backwards, and saw Minako mock-shaking her fist at Yakov, before returning to her task at mending another rent in the fabric of a dancer's girdle.

Celestino stepped forward from a knot of stagehands. In one hand, he bore an envelope sealed in black wax. It looked like a warning bearing a pirate's curse.

All the breath left Yuuri's lungs.

“Welcome, messieurs, we are honored,” said Celestino, striding to stand next to Giacometti. “We take great pride in the excellency of our ballet. And as you must have heard, Ice Castle is famous for it.”

“Indeed!” Giacometti agreed. “Might I ask who the little olive-skinned angel is? He dances like a true entertainer.” He glanced sidelong at Phichit, before tearing his eyes away to look back to Celestino.

Phichit blushed to the roots of his black hair, and retreated ever so slightly behind Yuuri. Mila thumped him playfully.

“My ward, Phichit. I have trained him since he could walk.” Celestino's stiff answer quite clearly stated that Giacometti's interest was to extend no further than that of opera manager.

“And a very amiable little boy he is, too,” said Jean-Jacques, fidgeting as if he knew not whether to keep his pose or strike a more impressive one. Or whether there was really any reason to talk about backup dancers at all.

Yuuko and Yuuri smiled at each other.

Giacometti bowed slightly. “And what of the Japanese boy? He moves like a child of the gods.”

Yuuri would have gasped at these continued forward inquiries, if he had any breath.

Celestino's voice only grew deeper. “My other ward, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“I would like to commend the animal print on their outfits,” said Yuri, probably to steer the conversation to more appropriate waters. Yuuri noticed the Vicomte was stroking an animal print vest as he spoke.

“Katsuki?” Popovich repeated, like a man who mentally filed away every name he ever heard. “Not like the late famous Japanese violinist?”

“Indeed, yes,” answered Celestino. “Madame Katsuki was his mother, and a good friend of mine.”

Yuuri reeled slightly. A stranger remembered his mother's married surname, but Yuri Plisetsky couldn't remember his name or his face? Did the Vicomte only notice animal prints?

“Speaking of friends,” Jean-Jacques began, hopping from one foot to another, as if he were about to dance to see if the others would pay attention.

“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me,” said Celestino, coolly stealing the momentum of the conversation from Jean-Jacques. “My good sirs, I have a letter for your from a sort of resident friend, here at the Ice Castle Opera.”

Most of the people on the stage took a step closer, eagerly anticipating what reactions were in store. Would their new managers and patron take the absurdity in stride?

Yuuri took a couple steps backward before his limbs threatened to give way. He felt as if he were submerged in a bath and then frozen in place, so he couldn't raise his head to break the surface of the water. He forced his lungs to keep working.

“Resident friend?” Now Yuuri could see the Vicomte again, and the young man looked amused for the first time all day.

“Indeed.” Celestino broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

“Is that a black skull seal?” Popovich asked.

“Indeed.”

Popovich shot Yuri an equally amused glance.

Celestino read aloud verbatim. Yuuri searched for any sign of movement in the rafters, but he found none. He knew the ghost of the ice was up there somewhere, hanging on every word like a vulture, nonetheless.

_My dear sirs,_

_I cordially welcome you to my opera house. You will find it in good working order, thanks to Yakov's delegation and Celestino's guidance and Minako's action._

_To keep the Ice Castle Opera in good working order under my blessing, I require three things._

_Item 1: Leave box five empty at all times for my use._

_Item 2: My monthly salary of 20,000 francs is due. You may leave it on the stage, inside this envelope marked with my seal, to signal it is for me. I shall collect it at my leisure._

_Item 3: Do not harm the poodle._

_Yours respectfully,  
Ghost of the Ice_

_P. S. - I suggest you find an understudy for Jean-Jacques Leroy soon. Strange things do happen. Celestino will know who to nominate._

Yuri's mouth fell open. Popovich turned a purple to match his jabot. Giacometti alone found his tongue. 

“Of all the nonsense!” he shouted, before lowering his voice. “Pardon me if this is a tradition in the opera I am unfamiliar with, but what sort of schoolboy prank is this?”

“It is quite real, I assure you,” said Yakov, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have paid his salary for years now, ever since the first time I refused brought on a week of calamities for us.”

Popovich was the next to recover. “20,000 francs? He cannot be serious. What the devil does this ghost of the ice even do?”

“Ghostly things, I suppose,” said Yuri. To Yuuri's astonishment, the Vicomte was grinning widely. There was nothing wooden about his voice or demeanor now. He looked like a tiger reunited with his jungle. “Do not fret yourselves, gentlemen; I am the bloody patron, I will pay his bloody salary. That is my function here, is it not?”

“Do not encourage him!” Jean-Jacques exclaimed, glaring at Yuri. “Too long this ridiculous ghost has plagued us with his whims. It's time to cast him aside and let someone else rule here! He'll frighten away easily enough, if you stand up to him!”

Yuri smirked at the singer. He turned to the managers, both arriving and leaving. “Are you willing to risk a week of calamities, starting with our sold out show tonight?” he asked.

Yakov smiled back at him. Popovich and Giacometti paled and shook their heads. They put Yuuri in mind of two bashful penguins.

“Very well, then! Master Celestino, if you please!” And Yuri held out his hand for the envelope with the black wax seal.

When Celestino handed the letter over to the Vicomte, Jean-Jacques erupted. “Very well, indeed! I hope you, Messieur Vicomte, and the rest of the audience is as excited by dancing girls and boys as your new managers. Because this week's first calamity is happening anyway. I WILL NOT BE SINGING!” 

He turned on his heel and marched like general who was certainly not beating a hasty retreat. Yet again, Yuuri reeled. The ghost's decree . . . they were going to ask Yuuri to sing Jean-Jacques' part, weren't they?

He sighed in relief when Giacometti and Popovich took Yakov's advice, chasing Jean-Jacques down to grovel and scrape and preen and pet. Within five minutes, Jean-Jacques was back on the stage in front of everyone, ready to demonstrate what he did best. Yakov bade everyone adieu, shook hands with Celestino and Yuri, and left to catch his coach to start his journey back to Russia.

Jean-Jacques hadn't even sung five bars before the painted background tapestry came tumbling down upon his head.


	2. White Crystals Midst the Dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An understudy for Jean-Jacques Leroy, a sold-out opera performance, a seamstress on a mission, and a card for dancing engagements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Yuri!!! on Ice, or any of the characters. All I got is imagination and a bit o' insomnia.
> 
> Thank you, thank you for the kind, encouraging comments and kudos. ^_^ I will try to deliver and meet expectations!
> 
> This chapter is inspired by the wonderful [“Think of Me” dress](http://i287.photobucket.com/albums/ll129/cinderellascloset/10%20-%20VICTORIAN%20COSTUME/Victorian%20Movies/Phantom%20of%20the%20Opera/Christine%20Daae/Think%20of%20me/4.jpg) (which was in turn inspired by [this painting](https://dickeseinhorn.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/2c55090aa38250ea9120627ddafa9eed.jpg).) I imagine a white genderbend suit equivalent to look like a combo of [this show-stopper](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/2f/70/7f/2f707fca736c2b51df214fa60dbb97a0.jpg) and the shoulder sparklies from [Yuuri's free skate ensemble](http://shizax.tumblr.com/post/153546948828/2911-edited-happy-birthday-yuuri). (Y'all, my asexuality and loved of period clothing might be showing, but Ben Barnes fully clothed in Victorian garb was more distracting than all the sex scenes in that movie. :P)
> 
> Bonus: I imagine that Yuri P's vests look like a Victorian equivalent of [this](https://img0.etsystatic.com/065/0/11081290/il_570xN.774915096_jyw9.jpg) or [this](http://www.tuxedosdirect.com/image/cache/data/056586-600x600.jpg). You have NO IDEA how delighted I am there actually are leopard print vests in existence.
> 
> Also, HOLY CRAP THAT SEASON FINALE. I watched it at work in between tasks the day it aired (in the US), and was a blissful wreck, don't know how I got anything done. My coworker and I were IM'ing and fangirling like mad, both of us trying not to shriek and cry at our desks. I so wanted Yurio to win gold, for his own sake and also so we would get more seasons to show Yuuri's gold(medal)rush journey. ;) My babies, my precious babies, how I love you. We are a blessed fandom, you guys.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Constructive criticism is welcome, it hones my craft.

Yuuri, Mila, and two other dancers were closest to the pile of fabric and limbs that was Jean-Jacques Leroy, so they surged forward to grasp the wayward pole and ropes. Grunting and heaving, they inched the tapestry aside enough for Jean-Jacques to gather himself and stand. He blinked in confusion, looking like a venerable Peter snatched from beneath the billowing waves by Jesus.

After his shout at being literally curtained in shame before his time, everyone expected double the noise from Jean-Jacques. The dancers who assisted Mila and Yuuri backed away quickly. Yuuri cast a quick look around. Minako and Yuuko were cringing, Popovich and Phichit frowned with concern, and the Vicomte and Giacometti were smiling. Yuri kept glancing up at the rafters, as if they just needed coaxing to spill their secrets.

But Jean-Jacques only shot Giacometti, Popovich, and Yuri imperious glares, pretending everyone else was furniture with surprisingly human features. Yuuri felt an unexpected twang of sympathy; he would have died on the spot if he were squashed in front of a stage full of people.

“This is not to be borne,” Jean-Jacques murmured, voice so low the only ones who heard him were the managers, the Vicomte, and Yuuri and Mila. “Good luck trying to find an understudy for a king.” Then he spun round, finally acknowledging the audience and saluting them with his initials. 

“Goodbye, friends!” he bellowed.

He ripped off his hat, and shook it venomously while glaring above. They all knew the Opera Ghost must be watching, somewhere. Then Jean-Jacques cast the hat to the floorboards. He motioned for his fiancee to leave the crowd of dancers, and they swept away together. No one stood in their way. No one bade them goodbye.

“He should've kept the crown,” said Yuri, with a hint of an amused sneer. Stagehands began the slow process of suspending the tapestry in the air once again, and Yuuri and the other dancers scattered to give them more room.

Popovich looked to Giacometti, hands thrown in the air. Giacometti looked to Celestino. Celestino glanced in Yuuri's direction. Desperately, Yuuri mouthed, “Phichit. Please, pick Phichit!”

Phichit playfully pushed Yuuri forward.

“Yuuri Katsuki could sing the part, sir,” said Celestino, eyes twinkling as he swerved back to meet Giacometti's gaze. “His skills have improved significantly since the Opera Ghost began giving him lessons, eight months past.”

“The Opera Ghost tutors him?” Yuri's sneer morphed into a devious smirk. “This was all arranged to give his _protégé_ a shot, wasn't it?”

Yuuri saw the Vicomte looking at him with no recognition, before the Vicomte turned away and walked up to Celestino for the second time that day. “Are you alright with that?” he asked, gloves slipping into his leopard vest pockets. “I'm no expert, but it seems to me artists resent interference quite fiercely.”

“We do,” said Celestino, nodding gravely and adjusting his cufflinks. “But,” he nodded to Popovich and Giacometti, “the decision is yours, as the managers, gentlemen. Choose who you will.”

“Let's hear Katsuki's rendition of the piece, then,” said Popovich, adjusting his lavender jabot.

“Yes,” Giacometti agreed, tone gentle and amiable. Seeing that Celestino and Popovich were both busying themselves with their toilette, Giacometti seemed to feel left out. He started tapping his belt to draw attention to himself, particularly his lower half. “If you tell us something about this intriguing ghost fellow, Master Katsuki,” Giacometti went on, “you might sway our opinion _slightly_ in your favor.”

Mila pushed Yuuri forward further, as if Phichit hadn't done enough already. Yuuri was half-grateful, half-annoyed, for suddenly his limbs wouldn't work on their own. He almost had to grit his teeth to avoid stammering.

“I can't tell you much,” Yuuri said. He found his mind slipping in and out of memories of countless lessons, all blurring together like the pages of a book when he shuffled them past his thumbs. “I don't know his name, or his face. I only see his shadow. He voice is deep and lyrical and rich, and I think he can out-sing anyone here. His teaching method is eccentric, but effective. He is very firm, but quite kind.”

“Oh, he's eccentric, alright,” said the Vicomte, plucking his hands out of his vest pockets and smoothing the seams. “Well, let's hear it.”

Yuuri looked around him for emotional support. Minako waved her encouragement, and Yuuko and Mila smiled at him. Phichit was whispering something that sounded like a prayer. 

Celestino waved a prompt to the conductor. The musicians began the intro to “Stay Close to Me.” Strings began to sound, and Yuuri's heart hammered like it wanted to spend all its energy and quit on him. He felt as if the blood would burst through his ears and temples, showering the stage and warming the toes of those gathered around him. 

He closed his eyes and pretended that he was back at the beach in another corner of France, with no one but the shrill, distant gulls for an audience. His voice rose without thinking.

When the song ended and the music reached a crescendo, then faded like a smothered sigh, he shook himself and opened his eyes. He hoped the disappointment he would surely meet would not be severe. That he would be kindly shooed aside before they let Phichit try his voice at the part.

He listed all flaws in the performance mentally. The highest note wasn't strong enough; the beginning had an amateur's temerity quavering; the middle lacked gravity and poise. In the crucial moment that fire should have seared all ears around him, there had only been a hint of lukewarmth. He had butchered it even more than feared.

The first person he looked to was Yuri. The Vicomte's eyes were wide, almost misty. Self-consciousness stabbed even deeper; Yuuri couldn't hold the crossroads of their gazes, those green eyes saw too much. He glanced away to the managers. Popovich was smiling with respect at him, and Giacometti looked like a cat thoroughly charmed with nip.

Yuuri was thoroughly baffled, and it was only Phichit's hands meeting his back that held him steady.

“Anyone else you would like to audition?” Celestino asked, voice lilting, suave even.

“No,” said Yuri simply.

Neither of the managers protested.

“Minako!” Celestino cried out, clapping. “I hate to do this to you, but I need you to adapt what you can to fit Yuuri for the lead role. Do whatever you please; complete free license is your reward for fast results. I'll get replacements for the two backup dancers. Yuuri, make sure you memorize and practice your solos while Minako works.”

Feeling the blood flee his temples as suddenly as it had rushed there, Yuuri took a half-step forward, bowed mutely, and fled the stage. He was vaguely aware of Phichit, Mila, and Yuuko all staring happily after him. Their support failed to warm him, grateful though he was. He wondered how he was going to face a sold-out crowd tonight when he could barely stand to perform before Yuri.

He'd never had any trouble singing with Yuri back at the beach ten years ago. He still sang some of the songs Yuri had taught him. Obviously Yuri had forgotten the Japanese songs he had taught in return. He felt his face grow red as he heard Celestino speaking loudly to Popovich. His guardian was probably hoping that Yuuri would overhear the praise behind his back, which was so hard to take to his face.

“Oh, no, that is only touching the surface, Popovich, my dear sir. The boy's quiet, but he's a chameleon of the best sort. He sings alto as well as tenor, and has been playing almost as many girls' roles as boys'. He and Mila make a game of switching roles quite often, and they're the only two who can pull it off tolerably well.”

Somehow, he managed to reach Minako's sewing room without tripping over himself. It helped that it was less than thirty paces from the back of the stage. Too anxious to sit still, he opened her sewing baskets and began laying out needles and thread in groupings he knew she liked. He took the silver ribbon out from beneath his collar and set it aside. In a couple minutes Minako bustled through the door, arms full of fully finished, half-finished, and not-yet-begun costumes.

“I hope you don't mind sewing buttons,” she said. “I will need to put most of my focus on the big stuff if we're going to make it.”

Yuuri nearly jumped out of his own skin when a girl with dark hair and olive skin popped out from behind one of Minako's female manikins.

“Do let me help!” Sara begged, purple eyes wide and sweet as can be. “They only need Mickey helping the orchestra tonight. I'm quite abandoned.”

“Very well, girl, help Yuuri lay the supplies out.”

Sara smoothed down her skirt, then hiked it up by her knees, ready for any work necessary. She smiled at Yuuri, but Yuuri shrugged at her, already finished. He was a quick worker.

Still, his speed was nothing compared to Minako's speed, whisking away his animal print collar and throwing fabrics up along his shoulders, arms, and sides. Grasping for something to ground him and stop his head from spinning, he started singing the lead part's ending number first. He felt least confident about it, so it begged special attention. There were a couple bars he knew would give him hell. 

Midst the lulls in the song, Minako jabbered back and forth with Sara about the colors, the cut, the drape, the time involved in adapting this piece or that piece. As soon as they crossed another costume and its plan of action off their list, Yuuri was given simple tasks on it. Like sewing buttons or pinning simple seams, which lack of fine skill would not harm the finished product. 

Yuuri's hands shook, partly because he knew it would be just like him to prick his finger and bleed all over everything. Partly because it was difficult to sing solos when two women were still arguing over other costumes and throwing things on and off his back and shoulders. 

He was happy that one of his costumes at least was already blood red, like the leather gloves his mother had given him when he was eleven. Which he had promptly lost, like most things in his life, save fear.

Still, he kept on, his favorite moment by far being nailing the passage from “Stay Close to Me.”

_Con una spada vorrei tagliare  
Quelle gole che cantano d'amore_ *

And while Minako was adjusting a suit so tight, he might as well be wearing a corset without boning, no less. That was almost a better confidence boost than Sara's smile.

Before Yuuri knew it, he had every button sewn on tightly; he had sung every word he needed for tonight three or four times; Minako and Sara had every costume sewn, pressed, and hanging ready. The silver ribbon was tied around his ankle as a good luck charm.

And of course, Mickey had wandered in to berate Sara for offering to help without him, only to be given tasks. Like delivering Yuuri's leopard print costume for another dancer's use, or fetching food and wine. Minako watched Yuuri's food intake carefully, scolding him when he wouldn't eat enough at first, then taking the food out of reach when he started eating too much.

Yuuri took a deep breath to bask in a feeling of accomplishment—only to feel his lungs deflate as he realized the opera performance itself was only moments away. Minako left his first costume for last, and so he was already dressed for the opening scene. 

Sara sat him down in a nearby chair and began work on his stage makeup, softly telling him to move his head this way or that. Mickey watched and commented, trying and failing to curb his annoyance at the attention his sister paid Yuuri. 

And Yuuri agonized in his mind, circling over and over through visions of a sea of hostile, mocking faces. People who came here to see Jean-Jeaques Leroy own the stage, not Yuuri Katsuki shuffle in with apologies. People who would be so disappointed at this excuse of an understudy. (Technically, he wasn't even an understudy.) 

He tried to comfort himself. He had his lines, he had his notes, he had his costumes, he had his teacher's silver ribbon. Everything was already written. He only had to push himself into diving in, to put on the heart and mind and skin of his character, and then he would let memory and instinct do the rest.

Except his instinct told him his voice would sputter and die like a snuffed candle.

He broke free from the waking nightmare when a hand squeezed his arm. His vision returned to focus, and he looked up to see Minako standing before him, glass of wine in hand. A polite refusal was on his lips, but she spoke before his words could free themselves. 

“Drink just a couple sips, to fortify you,” she said, knowing how much he hated the one time Mila had set him tipsy before a show. “Warm your veins, alright? We are all so happy for your opportunity, Yuuri. Please give yourself the benefit of faith that only _you_ seem to deny yourself.”

Yuuri nodded and took two quick gulps, before handing the glass to Sara, who was reaching for it eagerly. 

Minako looked at him, eyes fixed and searching. “Did you doubt that I'd be able to get your costumes ready?” she asked, returning a couple stray pins to a cushion hung over her bosom.

“No, not at all!” said Yuuri quickly. “You always come through, and quite splendidly, and—”

“That's how we feel about you,” Minako interrupted, voice soft and fond. She flicked back the pincushion so hung down along her spine instead, and locked him in a ginger hug so she wouldn't muss her own work. Over Minako's shoulder, Sara and Mickey were sipping the wine and nodding at him with fierce encouragement, even though Mickey still seemed put out.

Minako released him, held Yuuri out at arm's length, and went on, “That's how I feel about your dancing and your singing. You _are_ music, Yuuri.”

At the mention of music, Yuuri could practically hear his mother's violin trilling quietly in his mind. Minako's eyes glinted a little, and Yuuri knew she was losing herself in memories much like his own. She had known his mother for a time as well, though not as well as Celestino. His vision swam with tears he couldn't shed. 

“And when people see your movements or hear your voice,” Minako went on, “you make them feel at home. It's your gift, instilled in you by a mother who mended heartstrings with violin strings, and a father who rested weary souls with a night's stay under his roof. You are so blessed, so blessed, child, and you bless those around you. Never forget that. Please.”

Yuuri let out a shuddering breath, blinked till his vision cleared, and nodded. “Thank you. _Thank you._ ”

Minako nodded, motioning him to make for the stage, and Sara and Mickey waved. Yuuri strode out to meet his fears in the face and sing till they dashed themselves upon the stage, like sailors dying on a siren's rocky shore.

Yuuri had no idea how he made it on to the stage. One minute he was watching his feet cross the threshold of the sewing room. The next he was watching the curtain rise and the dancers spring to life midst excited cheers for the opera's opening. He and the other leads stood in the background, to tease the audience into wondering who was who before they sprang to life one by one.

Yuuri tried to think about the gulls again as his moment drew closer and closer, midst spiraling swells of violin and trumpet, to see if the birds' calls could sustain him. But it was impossible. He couldn't close his eyes, and the constant murmurs of an expectant audience made it impossible to hear any other sound.

Then he noticed that Yuri was sitting in box six, and staring directly at him with the most peculiar, guarded expression. It snapped Yuuri from all other trains of thought. He thought of his own face, when on a very upsetting day, he'd looked in the mirror and almost mistaken himself for a moving statue that couldn't afford to weep. The Vicomte was decidedly _not_ on the verge of tears, so Yuuri couldn't fathom what he would need to cloak from the world.

Perhaps the Vicomte was regretting choosing Yuuri to sing? Worrying that the others would blame him for interfering? Yuuri could feel his vision wavering yet again, but then he blinked. Everything snapped back to clarity when he noticed the opera-glasses in the Vicomte's hand.

The opera-glasses had no tassel, only a red and white Japanese fan in miniature, on a string. Just like the pair Yuuri's mother had sent home with the Vicomte as a gift. The Vicomte had no memory of that time, but he still used opera-glasses with a fan.

Yuuri smiled. Now, for the first time, he felt he could cope with this feeling of being so far from home, so long as he had that reminder. Just a little bit of home might be enough.

His musical cue burst and hung in the air, like gulls suspended gliding on the upward swells of a sea breeze. He stepped forward, and the faces in the audience loomed closer and closer, threatening to drown him with their attentive, critical eyes. Minako's stiff, skin-tight white suit, with sequins and false crystals crusting his shoulders, served double duty to keep his back straight, shoulders firm, and gait regal. The backup dancers traipsed by to clear the stage, as if the winds were nipping at their heels like invisible wolves.

Yuuri sent an imperceptible nod to box five, apparently empty but certainly housing his tutor in the shadows. Then he locked his gaze with Yuri in box six and launched into “Stay Close to Me.”

The rest of the show went by in a blessed blur. Yuuri's mood dipped high and low and high again, but his voice stayed strong. Whenever he felt himself loosing grip on the hero's mentality, felt himself slipping off into a sea of fear again, he looked to box five and then box six, and found new strength. 

Even during the difficult passages in his ending number, he waded through. He was far from perfect, and was already filing away questions for his tutor for later, but he was passable. Perhaps, dare he think, even better than passable. Cheers rose and rose and rose when the curtain dropped a final time to shield him, like his mother from a storm in his childhood.

Phichit and Yuuko hugged him before he could protest, whispering giddy congratulations. Mila, seeing he was growing more overwhelmed by the moment, dragged him to his private quarters so he could sit and think. Minako was waiting inside, proud tears streaming down her face, ready to stand guard at the door.

Yuuri found himself sitting in the chair before his murky mirror and dressing table, head in hands, unable to believe his life. He'd actually done tolerably well in the lead role before a sold out audience. It was almost too good to bear! 

He barely registered Minako and Mila talking at the door and accepting gifts on his behalf. He heard Mila clunking things down around him, heard Minako muttering this and that at the door about his poor nerves, fatigue, and profoundest thanks.

When he ran his fingers through his hair and felt human enough to look up, he was shocked. His small room was overflowing with sprays of every flower imaginable, boxes of sweets, and occasional trinkets. A hat here, a scarf there, a letter hither, a pair of red gloves thither.

Yuuri blinked. _Red gloves?_ he wondered. He stared at the gloves from his chair in suspicion, almost afraid to rise and check if they were the right size for an eleven-year-old boy.

His focus swerved from the gloves to Minako. She was standing before the door opened but a few inches, and huffing with great pomp and solemnity. “Come back tomorrow when the boy's gotten some sleep and some food,” she said. “He'll be quite happy to accept congratulations then. And no, managers are no exception! Messieur Giacometti, while I heartily agree that I have the face of an angel half my age, I remain firm: Yuuri is not to be disturbed. Please, Messieurs, please. Yes, yes, I'll give him your flowers.”

Mila winked at Yuuri, then skirted past Minako while her arms were full of professionally arranged, overly fragrant bouquets.

“Come, come, Messieurs,” she said brightly, and Yuuri had no doubt she was skillfully tugging them away step by step. “I will do my best to make merry with you and the rest of the cast on Yuuri's behalf. He is not fond of parties, or at least the situations in which parties often put him, and so I must bear the burden for the two of us.”

Yuuri expected Minako to close the door, but she did not. He fidgeted in his chair, worried Chris was going to escape Mila and stampede his way inside.

“Messieur Vicomte!” said Minako, voice ragged with surprise.

Yuuri felt every muscle in his body freeze, as if he were possessed by a spirit of ice.

“I know you said the _primo uomo_ must be left to rest,” Yuuri heard the Vicomte half-shout from outside the door, “but I had to wait _forever_ for those two clowns to make themselves scarce. Also, we knew each other when we were children. Yuuri and I, I mean.”

_He remembered. He remembered and he didn't say one word?!_ Angry fire dissolved the ice in Yuuri's nerves, and his fingers clenched involuntarily. _What game is this testy Vicomte playing at?_ Yuuri Katsuki's anxieties brooked no games for him to agonize over each move. He detested all games that didn't involve dancing—and a few that did.

“Let him in, Minako. Please,” said Yuuri. He was surprised at the timber of his voice, more confident, firm than he expected.

Minako huffed again. “Very well. You know your own strength best, Yuuri.” She sashayed aside, and the Vicomte bobbed a quick bow of thanks. Yuuri wasn't sure if he really meant respect to a seamstress and dancer one paycheck away from being destitute, or if he bowed out of irreparable habits.

Yuri took the bouquets from her arms, and with a little curtsy of her own, Minako walked through the door. Outside stood Yuuko, smiling softly, and Yuuri smiled back. Yuuko must have led the Russian Yuri here. He saw Yuuko and Minako exchange glances. With a little start, Yuuri realized he couldn't guess the meaning. Usually he was good at reading anything Yuuko was projecting.

“I'll bring celebratory _katsudon_ to you in the morning, Yuuri!” Minako sang.

“Oh, please! Thank you, Minako! You rest too, you hear?” Yuuri called after her. 

Yuuko slipped the inside lock into place and snapped the door shut.

Yuuri didn't have time to wonder what Yuuko and Minako were about—he had explanations to wrest from a certain Vicomte, and before his resolve faltered.

He stood, trying not to stare as Yuri juggled the bouquets in the crook of his arm. He walked over to the red gloves resting on the rickety table by his bed. They were small, like his hands at age eleven. There was a hole in one of the thumbs, and a stain along an edge, both familiar. _Definitely mine._

He picked one up, and tossed it to the Russian Yuri. Yuri caught it with his free hand without blinking.

“You took them.” Yuuri decided he might as well jump in without preamble. He'd run out of steam otherwise.

Yuri grinned, tossing Giacometti's and Popovich's bouquets aside on the nearest level surface. “Indeed. I wanted a memento of a happy time and place. I was quite a brat back then.”

“ _Then_?” said Yuuri, before his brain could install a befitting filter back in place.

Yuri's grin only grew. “You think me a brat now, too, huh?”

Yuuri felt his face growing hot. He had run out of steam, alright. _I just insulted the man keeping this place afloat with his fortune, didn't I?_

To his surprise, the Vicomte's eyes lowered, and he kicked at the floorboards with an expensive leather toe of his boot. “If you felt I was an uppity prick and ignored you . . . that was not my intent. You made no sign, and so I felt it unwise to put you on the spot. Especially since Christophe and Georgi took such notice of you,” Yuri added. He looked up quickly, green eyes hardening. “I didn't want them trying to use our past acquaintance to tease information and company out of you. So there! Be wroth if you must.”

Yuuri shifted his weight from one foot to the other, almost wishing he could put this conversation off to a later time and start dancing instead.

“I . . . I suppose that's alright,” he said. “But honestly, Messieur Vicomte, how was I to waltz up to you and claim boyhood friendship, in front of everybody . . . while in a girdle as backup dancer, no less? Especially since you made no sign, either.”

“Oh,” said Yuri. “That would've made you an uppity prick, too. Damn. Hadn't considered that. And of course, the only one here who can get away with being an uppity prick is me.”

Yuuri found himself laughing before he could smother the mirth.

“Does this mean returning the gloves absolves me?” Yuri asked, setting the red glove next to its match on the nightstand and standing by Yuuri's shoulder.

“Almost,” said Yuuri, looking down at him and realizing just how short the Vicomte actually was. “I can't quite forgive the leopard print vest. How many do you have? This is slightly different from this morning's rendition.”

“The vest and all of its brothers are sacrosanct, leave them out of this,” Yuri snapped, his Russian-accented French growing a tad stronger. But it was in the same tone he would complain about the vegetables Yuuri's mother served a special way for him. The memory warmed Yuuri. “Be content you loom four or five inches closer to heaven than I,” the Vicomte went on.

At the mention of heaven, Yuuri was put in mind of one of the songs he had taught Yuri. Tentatively, he began singing the first few bars, and to his delight Yuri huffed in a very Minako-like fashion and sang along.

“You remember, Yuri!”

“Heh, it's the only one, I assure you,” Yuri protested.

Somehow, Yuuri didn't believe him. Before he could switch to one of the Russian songs Yuri had taught him, Yuri said, “You are not too fatigued, huh? You seem alright to me.”

Yuuri blinked. “Well, I am a little tired, but I actually have very good stamina, especially with dance. Just struggle with nerves whenever singing for more than one person is involved. Thank you for watching tonight, you did much to help ground me.”

“Oh.” Now the Vicomte was blinking at him, that same marble, emotion-free mask creeping back on his face. 

“What is it?”

Yuri sneered a little and fussed with the hem of his revered vest. “I thought you were looking at your string-pulling tutor in box five.”

“Well,” said Yuuri, feeling shy without really understanding why, “yes. I looked there, too. He will be at least somewhat pleased, I hope. He did tell me I was not allowed to lose my voice when I got a chance to take the lead. And I took the lead, and I sang without faltering too much.”

“That's putting it in tame language.” Yuri was huffing again. “I would put it in apt language: You enthralled a house full of opera enthusiasts. You made your parents proud. You might have just put that Jack the Screecher out of a job. And,” Yuri handed him a card, similar to those carried around at balls, to remind which dance was promised to whom, “you have earned yourself a night off. I will order my carriage, and we can go anywhere you please, and come back as soon as you wish.”

“Yuri!”

“I insist, you deserve a celebration now, not just pork in the morning!” And with an almost motherly frown that was completely unfamiliar, the Vicomte sailed to and through the door, and clipped it shut behind him. “I'll be back in two minutes. Get dressed if you don't want to go out in your dressing gown.” His shout was only slightly muffled by the door.

Yuuri looked down, and noticed for the first time that he was, indeed, wearing only his dressing gown and socks. He sighed and sat down on his bed, at odds with himself. What to do, when the man who essentially pays your check wants to whisk you away for childhood reminiscing?

Then he noticed a single rose, red as his old childhood gloves, resting on his pillow. Another silver ribbon was tied along its stem. _High praise, from a coach so prone to lecturing no matter what you do._ Yuuri smiled, reaching down to untie the other ribbon still wrapped around his ankle. He tucked the pair inside his pillowcase . . . along with countless other snippets of silver.

His ears pricked as he heard a slide of metal and a loud click, a bolt snapping shut. His door had been locked by a copy of Celestino's key— _from the outside._

Yuuri was tempted to chuckle. The angel of music was _jealous_ , now was he?

As if in answer, he heard his coach's voice boom from somewhere nearby.

_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion!_

Yuuri looked at the dancing engagement card in his hand, amused that it was blank save for one name – Yuri Plisetsky, scrawled in handwriting so awful, Yuuri could barely read it. No title, just his name as it was when Yuuri knew him when they were children.

Yuuri amended his first thought: the angel of music was _very_ jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Credit where it is very much due: Italian lyrics to “Stay Close to Me” borrowed from [this tumblr post](http://eternalbutterflies.tumblr.com/post/153161839313/stay-close-to-me-and-victuuri-relationship). THANK YOU!!!
> 
> \- Is it obvious I am head over heels for Yuuri yet? Also, Minako is my fave.
> 
> \- According to the almighty Google, spelling for _protégée/protégé_ differs with gender, _protégée_ for girls and _protégé_ for boys. MY WHOLE LIFE IS A LIE. I could swear I have only read the spelling **_protégée_** for both genders before. Is this a varies-on-culture-or-country thing???
> 
> \- I don't know how TWO Pride and Prejudice references got in that chapter. I just don't. (Who can tell me what those references were?)
> 
> \- Somehow, I feel “insolent boy, this slave of fashion” actually fits Yuri Plisetsky better than it ever did Raoul. LOL.
> 
> Meta for the actual show: Despite my Victuuri focus in the actual show, half my brain thinks Yurio has a crush on Yuuri. It's driving me CRAZY, because at first, I thought their friendship is strictly platonic. Then Yurio helped Yuuri with the salchow. I started wondering if Yurio's constant aggression towards Yuuri, and his resentment of Victor's interest, is all Yurio looking at Yuuri and thinking crap-I-like-you-but-I-don't-know-what-to-do. (Like Gilbert Blythe yanking on Anne Shirley's braid and calling her carrots.) I wondered if the vulnerable moment at the waterfall, and the moment Yurio gives Yuuri katsudon pirozhki, is him actually figuring out how to be softer and what to do to show care and affection.
> 
> Then in comes Episode 10. The scene where Yurio talks crap about Victor to test his patience? I'm 100% convinced Yurio wanted to see if Victor had serious affection for Yuuri, the kind that would tolerate no insult or abuse. (I think he also wanted to spur Victor to skate as well. What's more fun that kicking Yuuri's butt in competition? Kicking Yuuri's butt AND Victor's butt, that's what. Yurio will kick everyone's butt, including his own.)
> 
> Episode 12 was just icing on the cake. Confirming that a) Yurio, not Victor, noticed Yuuri from the beginning with the failed Grand Prix Final and b) Yurio finally knew what to do to motivate Yuuri—make himself an irresistible ~~katsudon~~ competitor. And then he breaks down crying on the ice. My poor baby.


	3. Lace Like Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friend and tutor, now rivals.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Yuri!!! on Ice, or any of the characters. All I got is imagination and a bit o' insomnia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you for kudos, comments, and bookmarks. I'm very grateful! Apologies for the wait. I worked full and overtime shifts through the holidays, and I'm still recovering. Also, it was SO HARD trying to get the atmosphere right for Yuuri and Yuri's tête a tête. This chapter is a beast.
> 
> This chapter's title is based on Christine's to-die-for nightgown and corset ensemble. Admire pics/gifs [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/f8/59/cc/f859ccfdc9dac5eb8f3e46462a173943.jpg) and [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/40/55/e1/4055e16d2c1c77e70c58761a647edc9b.jpg) and [here](http://media.tumblr.com/78b9f3582d9aa116e1f740c57095bf1c/tumblr_inline_msqlcexiSb1qz4rgp.gif). (I'm going to assume it was designed to sleep in after corset was removed. Who the hell sleeps in a corset?! I love corsets, but seriously, no. Which is why Yuuri is not put through the ordeal of sleeping in a corset here.)

_Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor  
Sharing in my triumph!_

The Opera Ghost sang for a few moments in a tirade, alternately praising Yuuri's performance, and insulting and belittling the opera's patron. His voice seemed to travel the room, one moment coming from one corner, the next flitting to the opposite side. Yuuri sang quietly, gently along, coaxing his tutor out of his rage. 

He walked round his little room, trying not to trip over flowers spilling everywhere. His voice was a little tired from the exertion of singing the lead role. He felt like a sparrow slowly calming an enraged harpy eagle.

“Yuri isn't a suitor,” said Yuuri, switching back to speaking normally. “He's an old friend happy to see me again. He stayed at my parents' inn as a child. We sang and threw sand at each other and made surprises for my mother.”

All the candles in the room snuffed out. Yuuri didn't realize how many candles were burning, until suddenly there were none, and the darkness wrapped around him like a lover. _Maybe the candles are what put these silly ideas into the Opera Ghost's head,_ he thought.

“Is that what you really think is happening?” The ghost of the ice spoke quietly now, sounding to Yuuri like he was standing by Yuuri's shoulder. His voice seemed to dip deeper and deeper. “A rekindling of a simple friendship?”

“Of course. You need not be so protective,” said Yuuri. _Honestly, he is worse than my parents would have been._ He fumbled on the end table by his bed for matches, and lit a candle, ready to scold his master if he extinguished that one as well. “Why would a nobleman seriously court a chorus boy? Especially an old friend? If he shows interest in Mila or Sara or Phichit, I'll refuse to let him trifle with them, for it would be only trifling. 

“When all is said and done and sung, teacher, the Vicomte will only be interested in courting someone else born high, bred well, raised rich. And 'twill be a _lady_.”

Yuuri used the light of the one candle to cross over to the changing screen shaped like Japanese _shogi_ doors. Even though he was _mostly_ sure his tutor couldn't see him, habitual modesty didn't die easily. There was also the ceiling-to-floor mirror, a gift from his tutor, to shrink from on the opposite wall. Even if it was very murky. He used the screen while slipping off his dressing gown, and slipping on a lady's nightgown adapted to fit his measurements. 

Minako had made it for him for a role once . . . and then lamented when it suddenly went missing. Several other costume items went missing, both before and after, but that had not been Yuuri's doing. Yuuri had felt guilty taking advantage of the fact somebody else was making off with Minako's hard work. He had dipped into his own savings and left recompense for all the pieces with an anonymous note.

No one knew what he preferred to wear to bed. He intended to keep it that way. On the dressing gown went again, like a piece of armor.

“Do you know if he _likes_ ladies?” his tutor asked.

It took Yuuri a moment to realize they were still talking about the Vicomte. “I'll ask him when he gets back, if you're _very_ curious,” said Yuuri, before he knew what he was saying. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth, astounded how playful he could be when he wasn't thinking.

“Do _you_ like ladies?” the Opera Ghost countered.

“Indeed,” said Yuuri quietly. “I think I still have a lingering infatuation with Yuuko, for all I've tried to distance myself after she chose Takeshi Nishigori.”

The ghost of the ice was eerily silent after that. Yuuri hoped he would be done with the subject. “Now, please, unlock the door,” Yuuri said. “The Vicomte will be back any moment. I am not leaving with him tonight, but I'm not going to shut him out with no explanation, either.”

His teacher still remained silent. But Yuuri heard the bolt snap aside.

“Thank you, my teacher,” said Yuuri. “Don't worry, if I want to lock him out, I will. But please trust me to lock my own door myself.”

Still no word from the Opera Ghost. Yuuri guessed his tutor would have quite a few choice words to scold him with later. For now, apparently, he would sulk.

Yuuri busied himself with lighting candles again, but had only lit three when he heard his door burst open.

“Yuuri, you didn't get ready!” the Vicomte exclaimed. He looked was trying to hide disappointment with bad humor. A very familiar look. Yuuri could almost imagine himself a boy back at home again, Yuri challenging him for the last bite of _katsudon_. He also looked as if he'd stopped at a mirror to smooth his cravat.

“No,” the singer replied, smiling apologetically. “I am sorry, Yuri, perhaps another time? I'm not leaving my room at the moment. But you can read to me for a bit, like we did by the sea, before I retire to sleep.”

“You're too tired?” the Vicomte supplied. “Very well, I will respect that. I shouldn't have assumed you were a night owl like myself.”

“Well, it's not just that, Yuri.” 

Yuri's eyes hardened again. “What do you mean? You have something against me?”

Yuuri brought up his hands in a placating gesture, waving them side to side. “No, not at all! I should be glad to take a turn in your carriage another time. It's just . . .” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “The angel of music, my tutor, is very strict. A curfew, for my health.”

“A curfew? For a man of twenty-three?” Yuri all-but growled. He glanced aside, eyes straying to the large mirror. As if he were looking for a scowling target, and found only his own reflection, half-hidden by subtle grime. “This man seems to decide you're _not allowed_ to do a great deal.”

“Actually, it is within reason,” said Yuuri, still waving his arms a bit. “I used to stay up till late hours, worrying. But since he got me used to rising earlier, I have fewer anxious and restless nights.”

Yuri's eyebrows shot upward. He turned to stare back at the singer, looking as if he didn't believe in the tutor's goodwill. “What, does he sing lullabies to put you to sleep, too, huh?”

Yuuri felt his face go hot, though it was not until that moment that he realized that might be embarrassing. “On the bad nights, when I feel like my fears will claw my skull open . . . yes.”

The strange expressionless mask wiped the Vicomte's features clean again. “Your fears? What troubles you, Yuuri?” he asked.

Yuuri shifted with discomfort. It was never easy talking about his inner demons which made no sense, even to those who knew him and his demons the best, like Yuuko, Minako, and Celestino. He crossed the room to seat himself by his pillow on his bed. He picked up the Opera Ghost's rose without thinking about it.

“It changes day by day,” he told his friend, hoping the Vicomte could still understand him after ten years. “Some days, worries only whisper at the back of my mind. If I fill my head with music, or with chatter from my friends, the worries freeze there like ice. They don't grow, don't fuse my limbs to the floor, don't fester in my lungs. And I can _breathe_.” 

Yuri waited for the other man to go on. When Yuuri did not, the Vicomte walked up to him and sat beside him on the bed. “And the other days?” the Vicomte asked, voice softer than its usual wont, but loud enough to pierce through Yuuri's mental distress.

Yuuri roused himself, trying not to ignore a man he hoped would stay and deepen their friendship. He tried to dispel the jittery feeling all over his body with a big sigh, then spoke hurriedly. If the Vicomte were to reject him or laugh at him, better to get the ordeal over with now.

“Other days the fears wrench themselves to the front of my mind, and I can think of nothing else. They pierce like thorns you can't root out. I think of my friends here, dying one by one like my parents.” He had to lay the rose across his knees to keep from crushing it, instead clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms, once, twice. Then he picked up the rose again, trailing trembling fingers along the edges of the petals, delicately, as if they were sharp as daggers. 

“I think of an injury that might keep me from ever dancing again. I think of my voice failing me during an important performance, and never returning.”At this, Yuuri couldn't stay seated any longer. Restlessness required movement, constant, like a swinging pendulum. He set the rose back on the pillow and jumped awkwardly to his feet, started pacing up and down what part of his room wasn't hedged in by flowers. 

“I think of some calamity happening to our opera house, closing it down and bereaving us all of work and home. I think of my tutor disappearing without a word, despite having sung to me since I first came here. Sometimes, I even thought that you might have fallen ill, or died, and I might never know it.”

Now Yuuri felt exhaustion creeping up on him. Eyes on the floor, he shuffled back to sit on his bed, picking up the rose once more. His eyes slowly shifted from the red petals of the rose to Yuri's face, praying that the Vicomte would not think him a fool or a child. 

Yuri's face was still blank as a new canvas, so Yuuri pressed on. “I wonder if I'll never really amount to anything,” the singer said. It was strange how once he started confessing, he couldn't stop. Usually he only spoke this much to the incense he burnt for his parents. “I wonder if I'll just languish in shadows, unseen, unheard, unknown for the rest of my life. I wonder if I succeed and became a lead, will I handle the pressures, the doubts, the responsibility, the competitive environment? 

“Sometimes I feel like I can't think, speak, move without stumbling. I wonder why I'm even here if I can barely exist in my own head, much less inhabit an actual, physical space.”

“So your nerves only worsened since I knew you before,” said Yuri quietly, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Yuuri was relieved the Vicomte didn't shrink away, didn't laugh, didn't look at him like he was a pitiful person. 

But the singer didn't quite like Yuri saying he had a problem with nerves, either. It was so much more complex than that. Perhaps Yuri understood, though he couldn't voice it. 

“Singing tonight must have been quite difficult, then,” Yuri went on. “It is good that you sang anyway.”

“Yes,” said Yuuri, fidgeting fretfully. “I sang anyway.”

“No wonder you are tired,” said Yuri, his tone irritable, though Yuuri couldn't tell which of them he was irritated with. “Definitely best to let you rest. What book shall I read? Do you still have--”

Yuuri nodded, bringing out a well-worn book from beneath his pillow, the title _Dark Stories of the North_ almost rubbed out. The Vicomte accepted the book and stood, motioning for Yuuri to lay down. Yuuri was a little startled.

“Do I have to tuck you in?” the Vicomte taunted, though by now Yuuri could tell he meant no harm by it.

“Only Minako tucks me in, and she hasn't done so for years,” Yuuri countered, and shimmied beneath the coverlet. Too late he realized he forget to shed his socks, and surreptitiously kicked them off and laid them down on the floor.

The Vicomte didn't notice, focused on letting the book fall open where it willed. He didn't seem surprised to see the first page of their favorite story. A tale of three girls, one free, one trapped by a mermaid beneath the ocean's surface, and one trapped by a witch in a frozen lake. The free girl went on a quest to befriend the mermaid, free her friends, and work as a team to kill the witch disguised as a dashing soldier.

The Vicomte's animated, acidic voice fit each part, even the cheery characters, who became ironic parodies of themselves. It was like discovering the entire story anew. Yuuri found himself smothering laughter each time the witch spoke, whether as herself or as the soldier. Somehow, Yuri's devious interpretation reminded him of Mila, and he wished she could listen as well.

When the story was over, the Vicomte unceremoniously thumped the book down on Yuuri's bedside table. Yuuri expected the Vicomte to half-bark goodnight, holding him to his promise to ride in the carriage later.

But Yuri only asked, “May I read to you after your next performance?”

Smothering another start, Yuuri realized the nobleman wanted to celebrate with a reading session each time he overcame his fright of the stage. Lead or part role, singing or dancing. Just like Minako making him _katsudon_ like his mother's. Yuri didn't want to just revisit a good memory once and then go on his way. He wanted to pick up their friendship where it had been dropped by distance and circumstance. 

Yuuri didn't realize he'd expected the Vicomte to ignore him after this, until that moment. Nor realize how much he'd wanted Yuri to be the same, only older and (slightly) more polished. And Yuuri found himself on the brink of tears.

“Indeed you may,” he said quickly, words sparse lest his voice start choking up. He hoped Yuri could tell he was glad. “Good night, Yuri.”

“Good night, Yuuri.”

The Vicomte's departure was mercifully swift. The second the door closed behind him, Yuuri hid his head in his hands and let tears the tears fall down his cheeks. They dried quickly, to his relief. He could already envision inviting the Vicomte to a picnic on a green with Phichit, or exploring a local graveyard with Mila, or testing out a new chocolate shop with Yuuko. 

Feeling almost as warm as if he had eaten _katsudon_ already, he was about to drift off to sleep when he heard a voice muttering, “Blind, Yuuri, blind.”

“You didn't leave?” Yuuri asked, words slurred with drowsiness.

“I don't leave. I wait,” his teacher replied. His voice still had a touch of petulance.

“Please sing to me?” Yuuri's motive was half for his own benefit, half for the Opera Ghost's. Singing for Yuuri's ears alone seemed to be his greatest joy, after hearing Yuuri sing.

“If you will follow my voice through the looking-glass, then yes.”

Yuuri's brow furrowed. He couldn't fathom what the ghost of the ice meant. Groggily, he slipped out of bed and trod barefoot, socks forgotten, to the mirror. 

_Flattering child, you shall know me,  
See why in shadow I hide._

The Opera Ghost's voice triggered an immediate response in Yuuri. Like the snap of a bowstring, Yuuri was wide awake, blinking and aware, anticipating and curious. He peered at glass, wondering if he was supposed to see something behind him in the reflection. His voice coach did so love to spring surprises.

_Look at your face in the mirror,  
I am there inside._

And then Yuuri was blinking at the now partially-see-through pane of glass, realizing the back of the mirror had swung away from the glass like a door on hinges. A masked figure stepped forward from the dark void beyond the patches of grime on the glass. Half the face was hidden beneath the mask, and half behind a curtain of long silver hair, some of bound with ribbon down his back, some cascading free.

 _Good God, it is a door,_ Yuuri thought. _No wonder it's so murky. There is a door. A door with a secret passage to my room. Behind my mirror. And my tutor wears a mask like a thief in the night._ He didn't know whether to be ecstatic or disturbed.

Black gloved fingers pried the glass pane aside, and it slid smoothly, slowly like the lid across a backgammon box. Yuuri stared at the black cape, black jacket, black vest, white stock, black trousers, and black leather shoes, all immaculate and cut to hug the figure. He vaguely wondered how one kept one's clothes nice while in a secret passage.

A gloved hand offered itself, open palm-upwards, a plea and a command in one. Before Yuuri could stop himself, he'd grasped the hand. Solid, warm grip. He was real. His teacher was not some disembodied voice, a figment of a forlorn orphan's imagination. He was flesh, blood, sweat, tears, and more. Yuuri felt enchanted, like a bit of the fairy tale Yuri had just read aloud had spilled into reality.

But not so enchanted as to take a step forward. Not yet.

“My curfew?” he asked.

Lips curved beneath the mask, and Yuuri heard the man chuckle. A few strands of the silvery hair trembled, almost like harp-strings. They were so much like the ribbons he was wont to use, but finer, maybe even softer. “Where did you learn to be coy?” his teacher asked. “I shan't disturb your rest for long, I assure you.”

It was so strange to hear the voice and be able to see its source. But Yuuri thought he wouldn't mind learning to associate the image with the sound. Satisfied his tutor knew he was being inconsistent, Yuuri stepped over the threshold. Allowing his tutor to gently draw him further down a dingy tunnel lit only by torches, he took up his part in the duet.

 _In sleep he sang to me,_  
_In dreams he came._  
_That voice which calls to me,_  
_And speaks my name._

At first, Yuuri idly wondered if anybody would hear them singing and follow. But as the Opera Ghost's voice swelled and dipped and swelled again, Yuuri was lost in the sound. It was as if he were back at the sea, adrift midst the tide. He could swear he could feel the powerful reverberations of his tutor's voice through their fingertips. 

It was magnificent to hear the voice alone, but to hear it while watching its source leading with firm, graceful steps was another experience altogether. His tutor moved as fluidly as Minako or Phichit or Mila or Yuuko. Yuuri hardly knew what he was singing, or where his feet touched the ground. He was floating on the wings of the music, and the music flowed through him like a second lifeblood. 

All at once, he saw his masked teacher releasing the mooring of a skull-studded gondola. Yuuri stepped aboard, and took turns steering with his tutor as they sang. They used a long pole to push the craft across a stretch of murky water, drifting over to what appeared to be a cave wall on the opposite side.

Once the gondola touched the other side, the ghost of the ice signaled the end of their duet, and Yuuri dutifully hit the highest note he could reach, despite his fatigue. As his teacher lighted on the ground and secured a mooring, Yuuri's voice echoed all around, as if each wall felt obliged to remind him of what he sounded like.

Yuuri glanced around at the wonderland around him, still standing as if transfixed in the moored gondola. Beneath the earth as they were, it was too warm for any real ice. But midst the dozens of candles, there gleamed countless crystal and glass shards. It was a makeshift frost adorning the furniture and collections of art of all kinds, and it made Yuuri shiver slightly all the same.

With a dramatic flourish that didn't surprise Yuuri in the slightest, his tutor cast off the cape and draped it along the nearest level surface, close by a gothic pipe organ grafted into the rock. Yuuri briefly thought back to the Vicomte tossing aside the bouquets from his managers. Soon all other thoughts fled his mind as the masked man arrested Yuuri's attention with his gaze.

“It is time for us to build trust in our relationship,” his teacher announced, stepping forward and offering his hand once more. Yuuri accepted it to humor him, returning his teacher's leather grip and nimbly leaped onto firm ground. He was momentarily distracted with the one eye of his teacher, peeking through the mask. It was endlessly blue. Yuuri was extremely fond of blue. “This is me, trusting you. Letting you set foot what no other living creature has set foot, save myself and the dog,” the ghost of the ice went on. 

He retained Yuuri's hand, switching to grasp it with his other hand, so he could walk alongside Yuuri once more. They walked past the organ, his tutor caressing the keys as an afterthought. “This is my domain, my sanctuary. The only cage I can truly inhabit freely. And this is you, trusting me in return. Letting me take you here, breaking my own curfew.” Here his lips curved in a smile again, still obviously a little miffed at Yuuri's wit at his expense. “Coming here alone with a man you know only by sound, not by sight, not by name.”

“Can you trust me with your name? Or your face?” Yuuri asked innocently.

His teacher stopped walking abruptly, drawing himself up to his full height (which was half a head taller than Yuuri). His silver curtain of hair almost slipped away to reveal the unmasked half of his face, but not quite. Yuuri was disappointed. “Impudent! You are too impudent!” he cried.

Yuuri withdrew his hand while his teacher was distracted by fond scolding. His teacher glanced at him sidelong, and Yuuri thought he saw a calculating glint in the eye framed by the mask. Then he leaned close to whisper in Yuuri's ear.

“My name,” he breathed, “is Victor.” And he took up Yuuri's hand again, glove warmer than it was just a moment ago, Yuuri was sure.

“Pleased to meet you, at long last, Victor,” said Yuuri softly. “I am glad you trust me enough to bring me here. But now I should like to go back to my bed.”

“Do you trust me enough to sleep here?” Victor asked. His tone was breezy and nonchalant, as was his posture. But Yuuri had spent years learning what the subtlest change in tone meant with that voice. This version of nonchalance was a ruse. 

_I have grossly underestimated the depth of his jealousy,_ Yuuri thought. _And its source._

In that moment, Yuuri knew he would have to fight Victor every step of the way to keep his friendship with Yuri.

For the longest time, Yuuri had looked on the ghost of the ice as his guardian angel. Sometimes the angel adapted his teacher's role to resemble a stern father, sometimes a doting mother-hen, sometimes a challenging elder brother. Whatever Yuuri needed his angel to be. He adapted so that he would not lose relevance to Celestino or Minako or Yuuko or Phichit or Mila. 

But now Yuuri realized this had been a journey, a cycle of roles for Victor to assume, biding their shared time and spanning his childhood, adolescence, and even the dawn of his adulthood. Waiting until the angel saw fit to take on the role he truly wished to play. 

_How long has he been planning this? When did he fixate on me as his lover?_

Yuuri looked up at the Opera Ghost, sensing for this first time there was a lot at stake that night, his future hanging upon each word that left his lips. “I must rest, Victor,” he said. “Undisturbed. And be back by morning.”

“Then you will stay?” Victor prompted. That one visible eye burned in its intensity, as if it would never leave its gaze on Yuuri's face.

 _Ah, he wants me to say it outright._ “Yes, for tonight, before an early rising,” said Yuuri aloud.

“Thank you for accepting my hospitality,” said Victor. His voice was almost choked, and Yuuri was intrigued how much his answer affected his tutor. “This way to your quarters.”

Before Yuuri could ask why he had his own room, the Opera Ghost began a lullaby Yuuri had never heard him sing before.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,  
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

And like a flickering candle flame in a gale, all background thoughts in Yuuri's mind vanished. The entire universe was made up of light reflecting off glass in mirrors and mock crystals, Victor's gloves encasing both of his hands and leading him forward, and Victor's voice enveloping his senses in velvet.

Yuuri did not know how much time had passed, or how far they had trodden, or even how many verses Victor had sung, until Victor's voice ceased. And then Yuuri found himself floating to the surface, breaching the haze that had fallen over his mind. With a start, he realized his hands had left Victor's. One of his hands had threaded itself into the long bangs over one of the Victor's eyes, and the other hand was skirting the edge of the top of Victor's mask. 

Victor's hands had also moved to pin each of his wrists, so Yuuri couldn't brush aside hair or mask.

Yuuri, he was ashamed to admit to himself, squeaked and tried to shrink away. But Victor held him fast, smiling reassuringly.

“I'm sorry,” Yuuri blurted out.

“It's alright. You may proceed, if . . .” and Victor trailed his gloved fingers down Yuuri's arms, over his shoulders, until he tugged the folds of Yuuri's dressing gown crossed over his chest, “I may proceed.”

Yuuri thought he felt his face catching fire. His hands retreated immediately, moving to pluck Victor's hands away from the front of his dressing gown.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, Victor, I'm . . . not entirely comfortable with that.” He made a mental note to never step foot anywhere near Victor again while he was wearing the nightgown. Perhaps never while wearing the dressing gown, either.

Victor let out a disappointed sigh, but nodded his acceptance. “I had hoped you would surprise me, but it seems you need time to grow acclimated, as you usually do.” He began to lead Yuuri to his quarters again.

 _I don't think I'll ever grow_ acclimated _to my mentor wishing to_ — With a start, Yuuri realized that he was refusing Victor, not because he resented the interest, but because he hadn't time to reflect on it. _Am I actually going to give the man who helped shape my childhood a chance at_ —

“Yuuri, I hope I haven't vexed you. Are you alright?” And Victor was squeezing his shoulders reassuringly.

“No, I am merely fatigued,” said Yuuri, running his hand through his hair and staring at his bare toes peeking out from beneath his dressing gown as he walked. “This has been a day of surprises.”

He looked up. Victor's smile was brilliant, blinding, even. Yuuri looked back down again.

“Indeed. I forget, this must be quite a bit for you to think upon,” Victor said, taking Yuuri's arm like a well-bred gentleman and leading him forward again. “You hadn't imagined a chance at a lead role before now, though I had been hoping to send Leroy sulking away for quite some time.”

“You had?” Yuuri asked, still staring down.

“Yes,” said Victor, his arm drawing Yuuri a closer to him. “I have many plans for you, Yuuri. I've never met someone I wanted so badly to flourish, someone whose natural radiance I wanted to refine into something transcendent. And I doubt I ever will.”

Yuuri gently stepped aside a little, arms still linked, but returning to the distance he preferred. “Thank you for your faith in me.” He hoped he didn't sound entirely stiff. But his teacher needed to know that, much though Yuuri looked up to him, Yuuri would not be pliant. Not unless he wanted to be.

Yuuri wondered when exactly _did_ Victor first fixate on him as his lover? Yuuri raked his memories like so many brittle leaves, but nothing stood out to him as a meaningful hint. He could think of many very vague possibilities for double _entendre_ , but nothing substantial, and it made his head ache.

“How far until—” Yuuri began, and then he stopped still. Off to the side, the white, pearl-adorned hem of a dress trailing just above the ground caught his eye. He jerked his head up in recognition. He stared at the first of Minako's handiwork to go missing, gracing a manikin along the rocky wall. 

A wedding gown.

A wedding gown made specifically for Yuuri's measurements, laden with false pearls as if for a princess of the sea. It was from when Yuuri traded roles with Mila, taking on the part of a rebellious bride on the run from not one, but two _fiancés_ (played by Mila and Phichit).

Dress rehearsal for that play had caused such mirth and surprise and uproar, it was a wonder that anybody had been able to perform their parts for the audience when the time came.

And as if the dress wasn't more than enough to put Yuuri out of commission, Yuuri's eyes rose a fraction more, and he noticed the manikin bore _a perfect wax replica of his face_ beneath the veil.

 _Oh,_ thought Yuuri, hands flying to his _real_ face. _Oh. My tutor made a wax figure of me. And dressed me as a bride. And wants me to sleep here. And I'm wearing a goddamn lacy nightgown, too. Oh._

Apparently, whether Yuuri had realized it or not, Victor had been . . . quite fixed upon him for a while. At that precise moment, Yuuri's fatigue seemed to numb all his limbs, and his vision blurred. Yuuri gritted his teeth. _Don't faint, don't faint, don't faint._

Victor's hands traversed his dressing gown like brands. One arm snaked beneath Yuuri's' arms to hold him up, the other hand slid up Yuuri's shoulder blade and neck, before brushing back his hair soothingly.

“I've kept you too long,” Victor whispered into his ear. “Come hither, your bed is not far, I promise.”

Victor began singing again, finishing his song as he helped Yuuri up a short flight of steps, over a carpet made of soft white furs, and into a bed of red and purple velvet piled high. Tired though he was, Yuuri noticed the bed's ornate metal frame was shaped into swan guarding a seashell. 

_You alone can make my song take flight.  
Help me make the music of the night._

Yuuri rest his head against the endlessly downy velvet, drowsily watching Victor nod a goodnight and drop a glittering, opaque black curtain around the bed. As if to reassure Yuuri that he would, indeed, rest undisturbed.

Yuuri's consciousness faded, all thoughts silenced.

When Yuuri woke, he had no idea what the time was, and wished he'd had the foresight to stow a pocket watch in his dressing gown pocket. As it is, all he had in his pockets was a handkerchief. He sat up, frowned at the gauzy curtain all around him and brushed his hands across his knees.

Lace met his fingertips. Yuuri went still as a mouse under an owl's watchful eye, and looked down at his knees. The intricate folds of the white nightgown met his eye. In a panic, Yuuri searched every inch of velvet on the swan bed for his dressing gown, but it was nowhere to be seen.

_Victor._

Some tutor was going to get a sound lecture from his student. But first . . . Yuuri stood on tip toe and his fingers met the delicate hooks hanging the curtain from the ceiling. He may not know the hour, but it was time for Yuuri to take revenge for his kidnapped dressing gown.

It took quite a bit of work to arrange the curtain about himself. Yuuri mentally thanked himself there was no curtain rod to worry him. He glanced back at the bed, noticing for the first time that the seashell part of the frame resembled an opening clam. _Hmmm. Did that make me the pearl?_

Doubtless it did, in Victor's eyes, at least.

Yuuri strode purposefully down the steps and past candelabra after candelabra, careful to avoid crystals sprinkled along the path here and there, following a trail to the organ. Victor sat on an ottoman before the keys, poring over paper after paper.

Yuuri tried to make his footstops soundless, but Victor seemed to have a sixth sense, for he looked up before Yuuri could close within ten feet of him. The previous trouble with the curtain was worth the stunned look in Victor's one visible eye.

A beat, and then another, and then another.

“My curtain,” said Victor, gesturing vaguely with a paper-stuffed gloved hand at the glittering cascade of black gathered round Yuuri's shoulders. Yuuri stood as tall and imperious as he could manage while wearing drapery. The curtain was still opaque, still left little to the imagination, but it did wonders to help Yuuri mourn his offended trust and dignity.

Yuuri motioned to his dressing gown, lying prone beside Victor's cape by the organ. “My dressing gown.”

Victor smiled, placating, fond, but also teasing. “Now, now, Yuuri, I wanted you to be comfortable,” he said, setting the papers aside.

“Then you should have let me be,” said Yuuri, trying to keep tears from stinging his eyes. “I was too sleepy to bid you a proper goodnight last night, so I will say it now. Good night, Victor, thank you for the borrowed bed. I'll see myself home.”

He stepped toward the moored gondola, and with a mental wrench, made himself slip the curtain off his shoulders. Then Yuuri promptly threw it in Victor's masked face.

Victor spluttered, and Yuuri smiled a little in spite of himself as he moved quickly for the gondola. But Victor recovered, clawing and throwing the curtain aside, then rushing to block Yuuri's path of exit.

“I'm sorry,” he said, arms spread wide as if to demonstrate the depth of what he was feeling. Yuuri felt almost caged. Victor's hair was mussed, barely concealing his other eye. “I'm sorry you're upset. I just . . . I just wanted to know more about you. I want to know everything about you.”

“You know a lot about me already, you've sung to me for years,” said Yuuri, wondering what exactly about removing his dressing gown was supposed to impress him.

“But not enough. Never enough!” said Victor, arms falling listlessly to his sides. “Not as much as your guardian or your friends. They've been talking to you face to face for years. I've only just begun. I want to know _everything_ there is to know about you, Yuuri. Things no one else can ever know. I want us to have shared secrets, shared jokes, shared memories privy to us alone. And . . . and I want you to know everything about me.”

And to Yuuri's surprise, Victor carded his fingers through his silver hair and pushed it back, tucking strands behind his ear. Now Yuuri could see two blue eyes gazing at him, and the uncovered half of Victor's face was elegant, sculpted, mesmerizing. He could actually pass for an angel of music. His expression was harried and wan, as if he'd spent the night worrying and was desperate for Yuuri to stay a little longer.

 _Why conceal a face like that?_ Yuuri wondered to himself. _Why hide here when you could be anyone you wanted to be out in the world?_

Almost as if he could hear Yuuri's thoughts, Victor grasped Yuuri's hands and guided them to his mask. Yuuri stared at those blue eyes, surprised and questioning, and Victor nodded.

 _Well_ , thought Yuuri, _when a masked man offers to let you remove his mask, you're practically obligated to remove it._

Yuuri peeled away the mask gently, as if he'd peel away Victor's face if he weren't careful. Criss-crossing scars marking Victor's forehead and cheek met his gaze. Like a long blade made imprints just deep enough to draw blood, and after the blood had dried, lined scars took their place.

Yuuri dropped the mask, hands flying to cover his mouth. The mask clattered against the ground. Victor winced visibly, and Yuuri realized he was far more insecure over these scars than Yuuri was over a frock. Steadying his breathing, Yuuri slowly reached out, as if he would spook Victor away with jerky movement, and traced the scars with his fingertips.

"Who did this to you?” he whispered.

Victor stepped forward to nuzzle into Yuuri's touch. “It matters not. The pain faded, but I'm still left with the curse in my skin.” Those blue eyes grew misty, and Yuuri could have sworn an oath that a couple unshed tears clung to the silvery lashes. “Am I forgiven, Yuuri? Are we even now?”

Yuuri let his fingers fall, padded over to where his dressing gown lay, and slipped it on. Then he padded back to Victor.

“I don't entirely resent you,” he replied, with a small smile, fixing the knot of Victor's stock. “But next time, ask.”

“Noted,” said Victor, smiling, and goodness gracious, Yuuri almost wished Victor would put the mask back on because his smile unguarded was _too much._ “Very well. I'm asking, may I see you home?”

Yuuri's smile widened. “Incorrigible. Yes, you may.”

Victor's arm was linked through his in an instant, suddenly in a hurry. “Those two fools who run my theater will probably be missing you.”

“Why? It can't be past morning,” said Yuuri, stepping lightly into the gondola and grasping the pole.

Victor smirked, collecting cape and mask and joining him in the gondola. “Sleeping beauty was very fatigued indeed,” he quipped. “It's nearly four in the afternoon.”

Yuuri stared at him, aghast. “Oh, no! They must be worried sick! Oh, Victor, why did you not wake—”

Victor took the pole from him, blue eyes boring into Yuuri's skull with a heat Yuuri was not prepared to meet. “I am quite sure you would _not_ have wanted me to wake you,” said Victor, his tone low and intimate, his free hand grazing just above Yuuri's hip. “Not yet, at least.”

 _I need to stop underestimating him_ , Yuuri thought. _And he needs to stop underestimating_ me.

He stepped away from Victor, intrigued and even flattered he had this effect on his teacher. (Knowing what Victor looked like, scars and all, made it even more intriguing.) But Yuuri was determined. Victor could not tell him what to do, the way he could tell him how to sing.

“Do not fret, Yuuri,” said Victor, smiling at Yuuri, though Yuuri couldn't tell why. He loosed the mooring and pushed the gondola on its way. “I sent letters; they are not razing the opera to the ground looking for you.”

“Indeed?” said Yuuri, brows rising, shifting his stance to balance himself. “Your letters don't always have a soothing effect.”

Victor's smile grew devious. “I am not responsible for the tempers of others.”

Before Yuuri knew it, they were plodding down the passageway, Yuuri taking care not to brush against anything and dirty his dressing gown. Yuuri did not remember Victor closing the mirror, but it was closed now. Victor opened the back of the mirror and drew the pane of glass aside.

For the first time, he removed his glove, and brushed his thumb gently along Yuuri's lips before Yuuri could react.

“Whenever you want to return to my ice castle beneath your ice castle,” he said, “sing for me to let me know you're on your way, and I'll meet you with the gondola.”

Yuuri's brain seemed to be reintroducing itself to the same haze from last night. “But, what if you are busy? I can't just summon you any time.”

“You can. You could summon me five minutes hence, and I'd come for you in a heartbeat,” said Victor. “Remember our lessons in your practice today."

And with a flurry of heavy black cape and light silver hair, Victor waved a white handkerchief at him, like a lady carrying a favor, and was gone.

Numbly, Yuuri slipped his hand into his dressing gown pocket. His handkerchief was gone, but in its place, a letter crinkled and crackled at him. Still in a haze, Yuuri stepped through his floor-to-ceiling mirror, closed the back and slid the pane in place. It looked even murkier than he remembered.

He drew out the letter and read.

_I told Minako to keep the katsudon warm for you. Enjoy. I apologize for borrowing your dressing gown. It bore so much of your scent._

_I do think myself awfully gentlemanly for not burning it, though. You deserve better than that old thing._

_I won't repeat performances that vex you. I will make it up to you, and more. I want to make you indescribably happy. The handkerchief will serve as a reminder of that promise. It smells even more like you than the dressing gown. Heavenly._

_\- Victor_

_P. S.--You look very fetching in a nightgown. Please do not despise me for having eyes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yassss, we have long-haired Victor in this fic. I <3 his long hair forever. It was a hard choice, deciding whether to make Victor disfigured or not. The Phantom is all about trying to transcend his physical flaws, but neglecting his character flaws. Victor is all about seeming flawless, but being as capricious (*cough* flying his ass to Japan after watching a video *cough*) and human and mistake-prone as any. In the end, I went for scars reflecting an injury. I hope it does the concept justice.
> 
> For you young'uns out there, if a romantic/sexual partner lays down a ton of crazy restrictions and doesn't want to share you with friends and family, that's your big red flag, riiiight there. They're your partner, not your master. (Phantom!Victor ain't using a curfew for Yuuri's benefit here, it's a control tactic.) Also, don't think that just because you are smart/strong-willed you can't be manipulated. You can. Manipulation is scary because it can work on anyone with feelings. Okay, rant ended.
> 
> If any of you struggle with any of Yuuri's fears as well, digital hugs to you. It's not easy to battle that at all. It's fighting a war against yourself.
> 
> Digital cookies to anyone who can name the Charles Dickens reference here. (I don't know how these nods to stuff get here. I nearly smacked myself for the painfully obvious Lewis Carroll and Carol Burnett references. I've officially lost it.)
> 
> I decided to have Yuuri wear a lady's nightgown because it's a combo of my two fave things. I don't think I should relish the idea of Yuuri in dresses as much as I do. Ah, well. I blame visual kei, it does things to you. ^_^


	4. All That Is Pink Does Indeed Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters from the Opera Ghost provoke rebellion. Confessions abound in the Victomte's carriage. And this performance of "Il Muto" is anything but quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Yuri!!! on Ice, or any of the characters. All I got is imagination and a bit o' insomnia.
> 
> Thank you for your encouraging kudos, comments, and bookmarks. They're like music to my ears. :) Constructive criticism is welcome, it helps me hone my craft.
> 
> This chapter title was inspired by this crazy impractical but crazy gorgeous [pink dress](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/2f/6b/70/2f6b70c718c9c0221572237ced4b6449.jpg). (And yes, the title it is a goofy twist on Tolkien's classic “all that is gold does not glitter.”) 
> 
> This chapter is massive. Sorry and you're welcome? My dialogue scenes never want to end, and POV switches are hard when you didn't plan on them.
> 
> This fic will be AT LEAST 9 chapters total. Tags updated to include slow burn (this is Yuuri after all, slow burn is his specialty). Also dark themes and manipulation and violence (because Dark!Victor got even darker than I planned). I will update as workload/family life allows, which will be once every 1 to 3 weeks.

The Vicomte drew his open carriage to a stop before the stables at the opera house, clicking softly to his horse. Today he was giving his footman and driver a break. Part of his motivation was lingering embarrassment that a grown man had servants for every task. And part of his motivation was hoping to get Yuuri for a carriage ride all to himself.

It had pained Yuri Plisetsky to pretend he did _not_ recognize Yuuri. To pretend he did not know the older version of the face from one of the happiest months of his life. When he and Yakov were discussing Yakov's retirement, the former manager had asked him a strange question. What was the last name of the family he'd stayed with as a child?

A couple weeks after that, Yakov had confirmed that Celestino's ward was the same Katsuki boy of his acquaintance, orphaned but grown.

Yuri had stamped in a fog of rage for nearly a week after that news. He still had tendrils circling him even now, as he lightly stepped down from the carriage, reins sliding through his fingertips. 

He should have written to Yuuri, instead of ignoring him. Instead of pretending he could not feel any finer emotions, even friendship. Much less the confusing affection that developed far past friendship. He should have made inquiries about the family's well-being. Then he would have known when the Katsuki parents passed. Then he could have asked his grandfather to take on Yuuri Katsuki as his ward and a companion to Yuri.

He was glad, at least, that Yuuri seemed to have plenty of friends here, and was content and happy. Perhaps happier than he would have been if indebted to a rich family. 

One friend did concern the Vicomte; the Opera Ghost fellow seemed troublesome, if not an outright threat to Yuuri's best interests. Yuuri seemed to be happy to make excuses for his teacher, and it made Yuri feel on edge. He knew how to keep people from taking advantage of his better nature; Yuuri might know, or he might not.

The stable boy traipsed up to him, his gait lazy and swinging. The boy smiled respectfully, accepting the reins for the carriage and replacing them with a letter.

“What's this?” Yuri asked, not liking the sudden obligation to interact with other mortals. Then he realized that the letter might be from Yuuri, and he had to bite back a smile.

The boy shrugged shyly and bobbed a quick bow, which the Vicomte returned. He told the boy to leave the horse hitched to the carriage, feed and groom him around the trappings, and only unhitch him if Yuri failed to return within half an hour. He barely registered the boy leading the horse and carriage away. On the back of the letter was a black wax seal; on the front were the words _Insolent Boy_ in ink red as blood.

 _Think of the devil_. Yuri tore open the letter and read as he walked. By the time he got to the signature, he was stuffing the letter in his tiger-striped waistcoat pocket and sprinting through the staff entrance. His blood pounded in his temples like a madman beating a drum.

He hoped to find Yuuri's friend Yuuko first. Instead he found Phichit, shepherding a ring of teenage dancers in a corner of the hallway. Phichit bowed and waved him in Yuuko's direction, mouthing “kitchens” at him. Yuri shimmied by them. After a couple wrong turns, he found Yuuko in the center of the kitchen, helping heap a platter in preparation for an early dinner. 

Yuri must have failed to hide how upset he felt. Yuuko took one look at him and rushed him out the door before he could scare the kitchen staff.

“Don't fret, Messieur,” she said, smiling warmly. “Minako-san brought word that the managers got a letter. Yuuri is fine and will be back with us soon.”

Yuri was miffed she could read him so well. By the way she was smiling, she certainly knew what his feelings toward Yuuri were. “Did Minako tell you what the letters actually said?” he asked, trying to keep his temper in check. His voice came out as a half-bitten growl anyway.

“Letters? As in more than one?” Yuuko's eyebrows rose.

Yuri did not know how he instinctively trusted Yuuko like he trusted his grandfather, but somehow he did. He pulled out the letter he had received and handed it over to her. The corners of her mouth twitched as she read it.

_Do no fear for young Master Katsuki. The angel of music has him under his wing. Make no attempt to see him again._

_He is oblivious to your wooing. I am not. For the sake of his fond memories, he should stay oblivious. (I would say for your sake, but I care not a whit about you). Find yourself someone who suits your tempestuous and tiring personality._

_Beware. The next time you try to catch me picking up my letter with payment, something considerably heavier than a curtain may fall upon your head._

_-OG_

_P.S.--All your waistcoats are an eyesore and ought to be burned._

“Congratulations, Messieur, you make the ghost of the ice jealous and insecure,” she said, handing him back the letter. He slipped it back in his pocket.

“That doesn't matter,” said Yuri, though he was rather pleased with himself nonetheless. “What worries me is his treatment of Yuuri.”

“Like a student?” said Yuuko, one brow falling, but the other staying raised in a sly question.

“Like a pet or a possession. One not to be shared.”

“But Messieur, the ghost of the ice has never resented us,” said Yuuko, brow crinkling. “Only _you_.”

“Mark me,” said Yuri, waggling a finger at her as he walked away in quest of the managers. “Soon he'll resent anybody who's close to Yuuri.”

He stomped away, hoping that Popovich and Giacometti hadn't done anything stupid already.

“Messieur!”

He stopped and whirled around, as Yuuko skipped after him to catch up. “Good luck. And forgive my impertinence, but please tell Yuuri of your feelings soon. He's not especially good with his own, or anyone else's. He wouldn't even confess to me when he wanted to do so.”

Yuri stared at her. Yuuri had loved her? At first thought, it was confusing; at second, it made sense. She was pretty and warm and lively and kind; she drew a lot of people to her, himself included. He had expected to feel the same jealousy he did at the mention of the Opera Ghost; but he did not. Yuuko was happy with her husband and her children, and she wanted the best for Yuuri in all things. He could read that plain as day in her soft eyes. He could read she wished him well, too.

He drew himself to his full height—which was about the same height as she was. “I will look over your impertinence just this once,” Yuri said gravely. But of course, Yuuko saw right through him and smiled brightly, before dashing back to the kitchen.

He didn't even have to look far for Giacometti and Popovich—all he had to do was follow Jean-Jacques Leroy's alternating shouting and belting. He came upon the three of them, with Celestino and now Phichit to boot, standing on the staircase leading up from the tiles of the grand room. They looked like crazed birds perched on a tree curving and groaning under their weight. The tiles were like a checkered pool for Yuri to wade across. Letters were waving around left and right.

“I know who sent this!” Jean-Jacques said as he approached, stabbing with his letter in Yuri's direction. He began switching back and forth between song and normal speech. “The Vicomte, his _good friend_. How clever of Katsuki to capture your attention as soon as may be.”

“I did not send it!” said Yuri, bristling at both accusations, open and covert. He wanted to massage his temples. Did _everyone_ know he struggled hiding his admiration for Yuuri _except_ Yuuri?

Accusations and denials flew thick and fast as everyone with a letter talked at once. Giacometti and Popovich reluctantly slipped into song as well. 

“Did you know of this?”

“Of course not!”

“You didn't send it?”

“Of course not!”

After enough bickering to try a priest's everlasting patience, everyone summarized their letters. (Yuri was glad of this, for he wouldn't read his aloud to _them_ for anything). Popovich's letter berated his meddling with the dance routine of their latest show to include violent, angry choreography. Giacometti's letter scorned his meddling with the costumes to draw unneeded attention to every dancer's _derriere_. 

And Jean-Jacques' letter warned him his days as the leading man were numbered. If he did not surrender the lead role in the opera playing that very night, he would regret it.

Even Celestino had a letter of his own, though his was not addressed to him, but to all and sundry. The ghost of the ice wanted Yuuri to star as the Count in their first showing of “Il Muto” . . . and wanted Jean-Jacques to take the silent role of a mute girl disguised as a pageboy. Box five was to be kept empty, the dog Makkachin was to be left alone, and the Vicomte was to stop hanging around when he had no actual patronly business. Defiance would invite catastrophe.

Jean-Jacques practically erupted. “All I hear lately is Yuuri this, Katsuki that! This obsession with that dancer with a half-decent voice is absurd! He is no king. I do hope you do not plan to be cowed by a man who sits and sends notes like a child in school!”

“I assure you, we do not,” said Popovich, tearing his own letter to pieces. “We've already given the dog away to someone who will take good care of him.”

“But the children!” said Phichit, before he could stop himself.

Giacometti winked at him, straightening his red cravat for extra emphasis. “Do not fret, we have got another poodle, only smaller. Won't eat as much, nor take up as much space.”

Phichit slipped away, no doubt to investigate and make sure both poodle and children were happy. Probably to excuse himself before Giacometti could start flirting again, too.

Yuri took Celestino aside and asked him if he'd seen Yuuri himself. Celestino said he had, that Yuuri was well but needed rest and solitude. Yuri fidgeted with his cufflinks to keep from kicking the steps of the staircase in frustration. He was willing to bet that there was never true solitude with a over-zealous tutor lurking around.

Giacometti went on, “I have word from my friend, Popovich. He writes he shall be happy to accept our invitation to sit in box five tonight. He's bringing both pistol and sword, just in case someone gives him trouble.”

“Excellent!” said Popovich, waving his arms. Yuri wondered if he was trying to take off in flight, like some damned bird. But he was welcome to his quirks for now; Yuri was feeling magnanimous at the idea of the Opera Ghost trying to dodge bullets and blades. Perhaps Yuuri being passed over for the lead role was worth it, just this once, if it humbled his demanding tutor.

“Also, Vicomte,” said Popovich, smiling at him, “if you'd be so good as to protect your pocketbook and hold off any payments to our esteemed but meddling guest, I would appreciate it.”

 _Nonsense_ , Yuri thought. _I'd pay the bastard handsomely to leave, if it would work. But it won't._

“Are you _sure_ you would not rather have your precious little angel sing?” Jean-Jacques asked Giacometti and Popovich, as if he could never have enough reassurances. Which, Yuri was loath to admit, was how people who put on performances, or shouldered heavy responsibilities, felt on a regular basis felt. Not that he knew the feeling personally...

“Messieur, no,” said the managers in unison, walking down the steps to stand on either side of Jean-Jacques Leroy, like officers flanking an admiral. “The world wants you. A king of song.”

 _Oh, God, they're all going to sing together,_ Yuri thought. He sprinted down the steps, glad his expensive shoes were worn in enough to grip and keep him from slipping. He hoped to outrun the first notes of impending ego-polishing. But he was too late.

_Prima uomo, first hero of the stage  
Your devotees are on their knees to implore you._

Celestino pressed a square of paper into his hand as he passed him. Yuri stopped at the bottom of the stairs to tear open the folded note. To his numb shock, he recognized Yuuri's handwriting, marveling that it hadn't changed much since they were little, and that he himself could remember it.

_Dear Vicomte,_

_If you are willing, I should like to accept your invitation to take a turn in your carriage this afternoon._

_Yours ever,_

_Yuuri_

The Vicomte couldn't stop his lips from twitching with the threat to grow into a smile. As if he would change his mind so easily! Yuuri knew he could be stubborn. And he liked how the note was so formal and stand-offish, as was Yuuri's wont, except how he signed his name. Just Yuuri, as if he were just a simple man and nothing more—but at the same time, hoping the familiarity in leaving just his given name would be acceptable.

It was more than acceptable. It made Yuri feel far more sprightly than he ought.

Nodding and bowing his thanks up to Celestino, he turned and walked as fast as he could while still looking composed, taking the short route to Yuuri's private quarters.

He knocked lightly on Yuuri's door, congratulating himself that he didn't smash the door down in his anxiety to make sure Yuuri was _really_ alright. Of course Celestino was trustworthy, but Yuri believed his own eyes first and foremost.

The door swung aside, and Yuuri peeked out, smiling when he recognized who it was. Or, rather, when he saw the animal print waistcoat.

“Good afternoon, Vicomte. You are sure you don't mind—” Yuuri began.

“Huh? Of course I don't mind, don't be daft,” Yuri interrupted, already having used up all his good manners for the day. “You are welcome to take a ride in my carriage any time, any place. Even if we're going back to Russia at midnight. You hear me? So there!”

Yuuri laughed. Yuri made an internal vow to keep him laughing the rest of the day, hopefully without the young singer being any the wiser.

Together they took the long, less-trodden route back to the stables, so nobody could stop Yuuri to quiz him on the Opera Ghost. Yuuri wore homespun greys and fawn brown that made him blend in with the surroundings, in stark contrast to the off-white suit Yuri wore without a thread out of place. (It was coincidence, pure coincidence, that it made Yuri think of the tight white suit Yuuri wore singing “Stay Close to Me.”) 

They made it to the stables just in time, the stable boy standing ready to unhitch the horse and put him in in the best stable stall. The boy winked at the Vicomte, and instead of being offended, the Vicomte winked back. The boy scurried off.

When Yuuri climbed into the open carriage, he stared. There were two level cushion seats made for two, perhaps three passengers each. One was free, and the other overflowing with a generous bundle tied with small ropes. Yuri climbed up after him. Yuuri turned to him with a raised brow. “Is that huge parcel there just so you can sit next to me?”

“No!” Yuri blustered. “It is there because I have an errand later, _and_ because I want you to learn to drive, _and_ because I want you to sit next to me.”

Yuuri chuckled and nodded, already eying the reins like he was trying to imagine how to direct the horse firmly but gently.

Yuri explained everything he did as he led the horse round the back of the double-ended stable and out onto the cobbled streets. Yuuri watched his every movement and hummed a tune to the rhythm of the hoofbeats against bits of stone.

Yuuri's staring at his hands made the Vicomte feel strangely self-conscious, like so many centipedes were dancing along his skin. He suddenly wished for gloves to cover his hands, and marveled. He never felt like he needed something to cloak himself. His caustic tongue and aggression under a genteel veneer kept people at bay. 

Yuuri was one of the few people he didn't need to beat back to arm's length. Yuuri had to be invited, reassured, and then left to his own devices, before he would come within arm's length at all.

Perhaps he wanted shrink away because Yuuri, and what Yuuri thought of him, really mattered to Yuri Plisetsky. Of course, this unfamiliar shrinking feeling made Yuri want to speak louder, stride longer, glare harder than ever.

 _How can just one person make me feel nostalgic and angry at the same time?!_ Yuri wondered to himself.

Yuri drove down the quieter streets, weaving as if he had planned the route for days. Then they stopped for a brief second and the Vicomte passed Yuuri the reins. With a click of the tongue and a flick of leather, Yuuri bade the horse move forward again. Yuri smiled as the horse obliged. Both the horse and Yuuri were a little awkward for a moment, the horse stepping tentatively, learning to memorize how Yuuri handled the reigns and communicated to him. He was a clever thing, but like both men in the carriage, didn't like new people at first at all.

Yuri had quite a few opportunities to correct Yuuri's tense fingers by molding them with his own. They went to waste. He knew Yuuri was expecting that. Yuri would have no such nonsense; far too _predictable_.

Gradually Yuuri relaxed, his grips on the reins softening, but his stance growing firm and confident. Soon the horse was _almost_ as comfortable under Yuuri's guidance as he was with his owner or the footman.

Yuuri turned to the Vicomte and grinned. Yuri nodded his approval.

“I'm glad you are quite alright today,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Yuuri. “And also, thank you for not subjecting me to interrogation about the Opera Ghost. Yuuko and Minako were _relentless_.”

Yuri smirked and gripped the edge of the carriage as the back wheel clipped a shallow pothole. “Well, I assumed you were a man who didn't like to brag about his trysts.”

If Yuuri's hands weren't occupied with the reins, he would have thrown them up and flailed them around a bit. “No, no, no! You misunderstand!” he said, voice almost rising an octave.

Yuri laughed. “Now, now. You can't pretend your tutor isn't as jealous as a spurned hag of a wife,” he teased. 

Yuuri glared at him, _outright glared at him_ , and then rolled his eyes heavenward. Smothering a start, Yuri realized he liked it when Yuuri showed all his emotions, even the negative ones. 

“You are both obsessed,” said Yuuri. At the Vicomte's puzzled look, Yuuri went on, “The ghost of the ice had a similar gripe against you.”

“See?” said Yuri, with a smirk. “Just like an old hag to get jealous of somebody younger. Since you're obviously giving that coot a chance, you might as well play fair and give me a chance, too.” 

Yuuri said nothing, merely tugging gently on the reins till the horse pulled to an empty space at the side of the road and stopped. Yuri watched with a little pride; the singer had been paying good attention to the lesson. The pride was spoiled by annoyance when he realized _who_ probably instilled attentiveness in Yuuri in the first place.

Then Yuuri turned to stare at him. “You are serious?” The Vicomte grunted like he was nine again. “No, I want you to say it aloud, Yuri. You truly have an interest beyond friendship in me?” Yuuri said, trying not to sound demanding, but utterly failing.

Yuri felt his frustration mounting, threatening to boil and froth over like a mug with too much mead. “Why the fuck would someone like _me_ be this gentlemanly if I wasn't interested?” he snapped.

“You aren't like this to your friends?” Yuuri persisted.

“Blast it, Yuuri, no. I wish pestilence upon Popovich and Giacometti hourly. I tried choke old Yakov on alcohol every time we drank. All my servants are half-deaf thanks to my shouting. The only ones who are exempt from my blanket resentment of life are my grandfather, my cat, and you.”

“You've gotten quite soft with Yuuko,” said Yuuri, tone astute. “Maybe it's her you truly like.”

“Not at all.”

“So you don't like women like that?” Yuuri was trying to sound like he wasn't curious, but the Vicomte knew damned well he was. But at least he was being direct about it, instead of pussyfooting around the subject.

“Perhaps I do, or perhaps I would, but . . .” Yuri wanted to stamp his foot, why was translating thoughts to words so bloody difficult? He mentally muttered a the beginning of a rosary to calm himself, then went on, “Well, if you _must_ know, I haven't thought of anyone but you since I was nine. It's you. So I'm kind, as far as my black soul allows, to you and yours.”

Yuuri's smile at that was brilliant. It was almost worth the trouble. “Does Victor count as mine, too?” he asked, face more cherub-like than all the Renaissance paintings Yuri had ever clapped eyes upon.

“Victor?” Yuri repeated.

“That's the Opera Ghost's name,” said Yuuri. “You are sworn to secrecy now. Tell no one.” His tone was half-joking, half-sincere.

But the Vicomte frankly didn't give a damn about the tutor's name. “No. He will never count,” he said, resisting the urge to clench his teeth. “He won't think of himself as yours—he'll think of _you_ as _his_.”

Yuuri contemplated his words. The Vicomte didn't know whether to be grateful or alarmed that Yuuri didn't protest or contradict. “And you won't think of me as yours?” Yuuri challenged.

Yuri tried to keep his smile neutral, and probably failed spectacularly. He felt entirely too mischievous. “No, I shan't be allowed to stake claim. We shall both belong to my cat.”

Yuuri laughed and with a flick of the reins, urged the horse to pull back into the center of the road and start trotting again.

Yuuri found himself a trifle short of breath. First Victor showing intense interest without warning, and now Yuri. At least Yuuri could be sure that this was, indeed, Yuri's first mention of any such thing. Yuuri wasn't sure when Victor had started dropping hints. Not anymore.

They talked on other subjects for a while, but as they drew back towards the Ice Castle opera, Yuri grew pensive. “I do not want to vex you, Yuuri,” he said, fiddling with the pockets of his striped vest. “But you haven't really told me if you return my interest. And I'd like an answer sometime soon...”

“I'm sorry,” said Yuuri, blushing and having a hard time deciding whether to look at the road or at the Victomte. “It's just, well, talking about the nuances of emotions is hard.”

“I would have never guessed,” the Vicomte deadpanned.

Yuuri smiled apologetically. “Well, I . . .” Yuuri took a deep breath, stared at a fixed point ahead, and spat out in a rush. “I think you are wonderful, if crochety before your time, and I'm so glad you came back into my life. But my emotions seem to be a mess. 

“While the idea of you thinking so highly of me makes me giddy, I don't know if I can develop the same attachment to you.” Yuuri's eyes strayed for a moment to stare at him with guarded warmth. “I . . . I can feel the beginnings of something, but I don't know what it's going to become.”

Yuri tapped his shoulder. “That's stupid, but how I feel is even stupider, so it's enough of an answer for me. You can tell me more when you have made up your mind at your own pace. Regardless, we'll always be friends like we were by the sea.”

To his surprise, Yuuri's brows pinched together, pensive and sad, and he jerked his head to face forward again.

“What did I say wrong?”

“Nothing. It's just, you're overlooking something,” said Yuuri, glancing at him with a molten somberness in his eyes, lingering on every expensive item on Yuri's person, before turning back to the road. 

“We were both boys then,” the singer went on. “And didn't have much difference between us. Except you had a good wardrobe you ruined with the sand and you knew how to use fancy silverware. Now . . . now you've come into your own as a man with title, wealth, and . . . expectations. And I've, well, come into nothing and had to do as best I could.”

Yuri knew Yuuri was probably staring at their clothes, and thinking of what they spoke of the men beneath them. “There's more to it than that, and it also doesn't matter,” said Yuri heatedly. “Everything I have was my birthright. I didn't have to work for it. I learned proper etiquette and studied with underpaid tutors with an overrated education. That was my only toil. 

“You, Katsuki, however, have earned every role you took. Everyone who taught you did so because they want you to do well. If our birthrights had been switched, I can't guarantee I would have flourished as you have. But I can guarantee you'd look good in a striped waistcoat and fancy shoes.”

Yuuri smiled at him, and Yuri was quite sure he'd sink into the cobblestones and never come out again. “Thank you, Messieur Vicomte,” said Yuuri.

“None of that now!” the Vicomte bristled. He was about to remind the singer he'd called him Yuri before, when they talked in his private quarters, before he noticed the teasing light in Yuuri's eyes.

They were approaching the courtyard before the Ice Castle Opera now. Yuuri had to concentrate to lead the horse and carriage past meandering pedestrians and up to the stable. Yuri took advantage of this to grab a small parcel tucked beneath one corner of the large bundle and hold it casually behind his back. While they waited for the stable boy, Yuri tapped his friend's shoulder again.

“You are not too upset that the managers have chosen to put Jean-Jacques in the lead, I hope?” he asked.

Yuuri shook his head. “I don't care very much for this show, though I am looking forward to how Mila will run away with every scene she sings. But I am worried how Victor will punish the managers—or rather, if anyone else is going to get caught up in it. Victor . . . Victor is . . .”

“High-handed and ruthless?” Yuri supplied, hopping down from the carriage and concealing a small parcel beneath his jacket. Yuuri hopped down after him, seeming unsure what to say. “You're not responsible for him, you know,” Yuri went on. “If he overreacts, it's nobody's fault but his own. Well, him and Giacometti's and Popovich's absurd ideas. I miss Yakov already.”

“I'm . . . I'm actually a little embarrassed he pushed so strongly for me to lead,” said Yuuri quietly, rubbing one arm as if it ached. “I know he just wants to help, but . . .”

“But?” Yuri encouraged. 

“But I don't want to be the lead just because I know people in high places.”

Yuri snorted at the unintended pun. “No, I think not. You'll earn your lead roles.” 

Yuri looked at the ground, scuffing his shoe against the floor again. The singer obviously needed more assurances. But making people feel warm and fuzzy with praise was never Yuri's strong suit. 

Finally, he spat out, “You've managed this long. That ought to count for something, if only stamina and patience. I can't tell you to stop tormenting yourself. So I'll have to distract you with a different torment.” 

He put his hands on either of Yuuri's shoulders and shook him. “I challenge you, Katsuki, to drive that has-been Leroy into retirement. He's acting like there isn't room for two leading men in Ice Castle. So show him it will be you. Give him hell, with appropriate musical accompaniment. I'm sure he annoys you at least half as much as he annoys me. Knock him off his pedestal. You possess the motivation. Act on it!”

Yuuri nodded, looking both intimidated, but determined. That counted as bravery enough in Yuri's eyes. Yuuri picked up the Vicomte's hands from his shoulders and squeezed. Yuri smiled. He took the small parcel out from beneath his jacket and shoved it under Yuri's nose, afraid to watch his reaction.

“I made _pirozhki_ , only like _katsudon_ ,” he said. “You probably already ate Minako's, but you also skipped breakfast, so you should eat this before your performance tonight.”

He felt Yuuri's fingers beneath his chin, and started a bit as Yuuri turned his head till he faced Yuuri and couldn't escape those deep brown eyes.

“Why, Yuri,” he said. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“I'm not _completely_ ornamental,” Yuri snapped back, taking a step aside to avoid Yuuri's fingers and smoothing down his tiger-striped waistcoat with a huff.

Yuuri popped a bit of _pirozhki_ in his mouth and beamed.

 _I'd like to see Victor try to make something better_ , Yuri thought, feeling smug and secure, at least for now. At least Yuuri was willing to give him a chance. That was enough—well, _almost_ enough. But Yuri needed to curb his greed for Yuuri's affection and regard for now, and be happy with small victories first. For now.

“Thank you, Yuri,” said the singer. “My apologies, I must leave you now. Minako made two base versions of a dress for when the Count masquerades as a Countess for this opera. Now the managers have decided on Leroy, she must be going mad finishing his version of the gown. I'll offer my services.”

Yuri bowed, and his friend returned the bow and hurried away. The stable boy approached, now ready to do his job, but Yuri waved him off. He unhitched the carriage himself, muttering praise into his horse's ear for being good for his friend. After putting the creature in a stall, Yuri realized he had completely forgotten what he _actually_ meant to do with the bundle in the carriage. 

He snatched it up to personally deliver it to Yuuko. He didn't trust anyone else to share the secret, save Minako. Especially not Phichit or the triplets. He found Yuuko in the kitchens again, and she gaped at him when she saw him practically dwarfed by the package he was carrying.

“What's this?” she whispered, shooing him into a corner.

“A surprise for Yuuri,” he told her. “If you will help me hide it, and get instructions and payment to Minako without anyone noticing, I will help you with food preparation.”

Yuuko stared at him. “You're going to _cook_?”

Yuri eyed a spare apron hanging on a hook in the wall, already mentally claiming it for himself. “Yes. I never ask people for favors without offering one in return.”

Yuuko smiled at him. “Both Yuris hate being beholden to anyone, I see. Fair warning, the head cook won't let you touch anything if she knows who you are. I'll have to lend you Yuuri's old clothes and cover you in flour to obscure your face.”

“Anything is better than a face full of sand,” Yuri retorted, remembering sand fights by the sea that he always ending up starting, somehow.

* * *

During dress rehearsal soon before the show, the barely-finished costume as a Countess in pink had to be lowered over Jean-Jacques with ropes, so heavy it was. Yuuri looked up into the rafters and watched the stage hands planning to slip Jean-Jacques into the costume backstage during the middle of the actual show. 

Minako and Sara descended on Jean-Jacques to make sure every bow, every tuck, every stitch was in order. Yuuri handed them needles and pins and thread, held pieces while they made adjustments, and offered stylistic critique as needed.

Throughout the process, Jean-Jacques smirked at Yuuri triumphantly. Everyone at Ice Castle, even the stable boy, knew this show had been chosen with Yuuri as the lead in mind. All in order to emphasize his ability to handle any role, whether in frocks or in trousers. Jean-Jacques was eager to prove he was even more versatile and engaging and relevant.

Yuuri did his best to ignore Jean-Jacques, expecting dress rehearsal to pass uneventfully, as his anxiety about Victor's plans for disaster mounted higher and higher. To Yuuri's shock, in every scene he shared with Jean-Jacques, the _primo uomo_ would fling some barb between lines. He left props in Yuuri's way, overacted (even by a king's standards) to throw Yuuri off balance, and coughed to interrupt whenever another actor interacted with Yuuri. 

No one missed this treatment—Mila looked like she would improvise mid-scene and slap him in the face. Yuuri was glad that the Vicomte was not to be found, or he would have probably tried to kick their star across the stage.

At first, Yuuri felt his confidence plummeting, uneasy with this focus on destroying his morale. Then he thought of the gulls skirting the shoreline in his memories, and of Yuri starting a sand fight when he didn't want to answer questions. And then Yuuri saw Jean-Jacques' behavior for what it was: a diversion. 

No one had given Jean-Jacques a challenge for years, and now someone younger, fresher had the captured interest of the public. Jean-Jacques was shaken to the core. He hadn't been obliged to fight, to really, truly fight for the best parts, for a very long time. He wasn't really ready to defend his title based on talent alone. His best bet to securing his place was to make Yuuri too miserable to flourish and surpass him.

Yuuri was long past being miserable.

 _Don't underestimate me, Messieur,_ Yuuri thought, smiling to himself. _You forget, I make music with or without my voice. I can still enthrall all around me without making a sound._

Still, Yuuri was relieved when Jean-Jacques' antics died down, as the star watched everyone around him grow more and more impatient and hostile. Jean-Jacques never did enjoy negative feedback, but he often tuned it out. Bu it was impossible to tune out the murmurs inviting the Opera Ghost to drop things upon his head again.

* * *

Victor closed his eyes. The first notes signaling the beginning of “Il Muto” hung in the air, then burst like a bubble, wafting down to him through the grating beneath the musicians' feet. He tapped his foot in time against the damp stone beneath his sturdy boots. He turned his masked face upward, staring in wonder at what little light seeped down through the holes in the grate above him. He relished the tension palpable in the air. 

The audience had no notion that behind the stage was a tide of restless buzzing and rustling, as everyone who knew about the Opera Ghost waited for his own show to begin.

 _Patience_ , he thought. _I sometimes forget and often delay, but I never disappoint._

He heard soft snuffling behind him, and turned to see two poodles staring forlornly at him. Smiling, he stooped and held his arms open wide. Makkachin bounded to him, nearly knocking him on his back. Victor kneaded the curly fur in his gloved hands, happy that Makkachin knew Paris well. Not every dog could trot right back to the Ice Castle Opera, after running away from the family who adopted him.

The other poodle, much smaller and younger, held back nervously, as if something about Victor's aura gave him pause. Victor hunched over further, making himself as small as he could, and offered the creature a treat from his pocket. Heartened by the other animal's trust in him, the new poodle padded up till it was almost in his lap and devoured the biscuit. Victor petted him, reinforcing the trust. 

Now that Makkachin was back safe and sound, he bore the newcomer no ill will. Makkachin would like a four-legged playmate, anyway. He scratched carefully behind the small poodle's ears, apologetic that he had yelled at him earlier, when the small poodle tried to follow Makkachin's old scent to the corridors below.

Victor stood and smiled at the two dogs, before starting his journey down the tunnel to a secret staircase. The bottle of whatever concoction Jean-Jacques Leroy used in between scenes was already replaced with a surprise. Now Victor must use the first scene to dance along the ropes high above the stage, and terrify the stagehands among the rafters. They were getting altogether too nosy lately, and if not spooked, might stumble upon his secret doors.

* * *

From the second the curtain rose in the first scene of “Il Muto,” Yuuri looked around him with dread lurking at the fading corners of his blurry vision. (Yuuri didn't have the best eyesight to begin with, but intense rushes of anxiety made him half-blind.) He was almost glad his part as Serafima was all dance and pantomime and no singing, like a mime wandering a town square. He wasn't sure he could have projected a steady voice now.

Every move he made was by wrote, taking cues from lilting strings or Mila's bursts of shrill song, barely paying proper attention. He hovered at back edges of the stage, pretending to listen to a long argument between Mila as a angry, neglected wife and Jean-Jacques as a bored, impatient husband. Jean Jacques stood behind a closed door in a dressing gown; Mila stood on the other side. And they exercised their lungs in a lyrical shouting match. 

Yuuri thought he saw Victor's shadow, a flick of silver hair, a flapping cape hem at every turn. They were only visions, but he worried all the same. Victor had never ventured past his meandering tunnels and secret doors and hidden alcoves before. But no one had gone out of their way to bait him like this before, either.

It made unease sink into the very pores of his skin, like blood soaking into cloth. He half-expected stains to spring to life on his hands and face and neck.

In box five, a stranger sat, not even hiding that he was armed with both a sword and a gun. In box seven, Giacometti and Popovich drank champagne and pointed out important guests to each other, like they'd never even heard of the ghost of the ice.

Whenever he felt his vision darkening with impending worries, he glanced sidelong at box six, where Yuri sat again. He nearly broke character when Yuri smirked at him and put his feet up along the railing, in a pose very much like his nine-year-old self.

The first act passed by without event, and Yuuri slowly relaxed. Perhaps the entire show would fly by before the ghost of the ice made his ire known.

Mila's Countess finally gave up on screeching at her husband the Count, and stormed off stage. Jean-Jacques spun round in his dressing gown and gestured to Yuuri.

_Serafima, away with this pretense!  
You cannot speak, but kiss me in my lady's absence!_

Yuuri marched up to the center of the stage in his pageboy garb, planting himself with a simpering, minx-like smirk next to Jean-Jacques. He undid the extra buttons near the collar of his his starched shirt, and with a rustle of silky fabric, his temporary striped vest billowed and fell to form a handkerchief skirt over the his breeches and hose. In the vest's place was a striped corset.

Then he leaned forward to pretend to kiss the Count behind an ornate fan. After pulling away, he glanced sidelong at Yuri and saw him pretending to gag. He nearly burst out laughing.

Jean-Jacques pranced off stage, as if disappearing behind a changing screen. Yuuri kept the audience occupied with a game of cat and mouse with housemaids played by Yuuko and Sara. When Jean-Jacques returned to the stage even sooner than Yuuri hoped, glittering like a giant pink macaroon, not a bow out of place, Yuuri let loose a sigh of relief. The stagehands had managed to wrangle that impossible dress.

Jean-Jacques pranced about the stage, bragging about how _now_ , he and Serafima could _both_ wear disguises. Together they would attend tonight's ball together with no one recognizing them. Best of all, his wife would never hear of their adventure.

_Oh, old hag, she makes me laugh.  
Ah ha ha ha!_

For what felt like far too long, Jean-Jacques half-sang, half-laughed, and Yuuri tried not to cringe. Jean-Jacques had a powerful and impressive voice, but he concurred with Victor: this part did not suit even a self-styled king.

“Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty? Did I not specify that my _protegé_ Katsuki was to play the lead role?”

Victor's voice boomed like a herald angel announcing the end of the world, interrupting Jean-Jacques mid-verse. The musicians halted, strings screeching, horns slipping off-key, and then all hushed. The audience gasped, like their last breath was being drawn out of them by supernatural forces.

Yuuri clenched his hands in the striped skirt at his thighs. “It's him,” he breathed, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to will his breathing to stay slow and measured, despite the distress of knowing the opera was ruined now. He hoped Victor would see him. Hoped Victor would see how much disturbing the show to threaten people was upsetting him, and stop for Yuuri's sake. He knew Victor wouldn't stop for anyone else.

Jean-Jacques waggled the fan at Yuuri like a scolding aunt. “Your part is silent, little pig.”

Then Jean-Jacques turned a pointed gaze to Giacometti and Popovich, as if to drive home that Victor would bark like a coddled spaniel, but do no real harm. He sauntered across the stage as well he could in a dress that rivaled an elephant's weight, misted his throat, and returned to Yuuri's side.

Yuuri stared at the Vicomte, who glared up at the rafters, then looked to Yuuri over the toes of his propped up shoes and smiled reassuringly.

But now, not even his good friend could quell Yuuri's fears. He realized with a start that Victor had a much bigger audience this time; he wouldn't be content with a simple curtain fall. He was as dramatic as any performer on the stage. Victor would not hold back, even for Yuuri's sake. Especially not once he'd already captured attention. He would rivet it upon himself as long as he could.

Yuuri thought back to what his childhood friend had said to him about Victor earlier. 

“No. He will never count. He won't think of himself as yours—he'll think of _you_ as _his_.”

Even now, in his own mind, Yuuri wasn't sure he could deny such a statement. Victor called himself Yuuri's coach, certainly—but just now he had called Yuuri _his protegé_ in front of dozens of people. 

Yuuri raised his head higher, mentally listing every expletive he knew in both Japanese and French, trying to make himself too angry to feel faint.

Jean-Jacques began singing again, louder than ever.

_Oh, old hag, she makes me laugh.  
Ah ha ha ha!_

Mid-verse, a horrific croak sprang from Jean-Jacques' lips. For Yuuri, it was like watching his worst nightmare through a warped mirror. Yuuri gasped, hand flying his own mouth in sympathetic nerves. The audience followed his example, and it felt as if the hundreds of lungs wheezing in tandem had stolen all the air from the room.

Even the musicians froze like they'd forgotten how to play. 

Jean-Jacques stamped his foot, glared up at the rafters, and resumed the song. More croaks filtered through to punctuate his words, until all he could do was choke and squeal and bray like a dying donkey. Still he kept on, as if willpower alone could reverse the inevitable.

The audience erupted, equal parts mirth and worry. Yuuri, Mila, Yuuko, and Sara had to drag him off the stage as Minako and Celestino surged from backstage to close the curtains.

* * *

“Your part is silent, little pig.” 

It took Victor a minute to accept that the obstacle to Yuuri's career advancement had insulted him mid-performance. It was incomprehensible. How could one belittle Yuuri, such a bewitching, yet guileless creature? How could one be so unprofessional? How did one expect to mock someone Victor had taken under his wing and pass unscathed?

“A pig, sir?” Victor grinned. “Perhaps it is _you_ who are the pig.”

And within a minute, Jean-Jacques could only squeal in distress as his voice fled, like a playboy quitting his conquest. It was beautiful, in a pathetic way.

It was a credit to Yuuri's ridiculously good nature that he took pity on Jean-Jacques, his enemy, and helped the has-been make his exit. As expected, dependable Minako and Celestino saw to the curtains. But Popovich and Giacometti recovered sooner than expected. Before the curtains were even fully let down, they leaped from their box and scrambled onstage.

“Ladies and gentleman!” Popovich boomed, sweeping a flourished bow. If Victor didn't know better, he would have thought Popovich was almost happy to be on stage for a moment himself. “We apologize, and beg your indulgence. It seems, quite obviously, that Jean-Jacques Leroy is unwell.”

“In a few moments, the performance will resume,” said Giacometti, elbowing Popovich. Popovich ducked his head behind the curtain and gesticulated to Yuuri, who released Jean-Jacques as he walked offstage into the arms of his _fiancée_. Yuuri seemed ready to sink to the floor, no doubt weighed with knowing only one singer could take the part. Celestino took him firmly by the shoulder and all-but threw him forward.

_Now, now, Yuuri. Don't let the chance I have granted you go to waste, sweet one._

Giacometti reached back and grabbed Yuuri's arm, luring him out to face the audience. Victor clenched his teeth, gloved hands gripping the ropes that held him steady, resisting the instinct to charge down there and tear Yuuri away. Yuuri belonged to Victor, and Victor alone. 

Sharing Yuuri with friends who nurtured him from childhood was one thing. Sharing him with this Chris fellow, even for a blink of an eye, was unconscionable. 

Yuuri deserved better than feckless Chris. Yuuri deserved better than the caustic Vicomte. Everything in this damned world was spoiled, save Yuuri. Yuuri had a rare purity, even when his eyes were shadowed with something dark and loathing, the likes of which Victor had never witnessed before. 

Yuuri deserved the world. And only Victor could open his eyes to the world, the way Yuuri deserved to see it. 

Most of all, Yuuri deserved to know that there was nothing loathsome about him. If Yuuri wanted to see a creature truly loathsome, Victor would volunteer himself.

“The lead role will be taken up by Master Katsuki,” Giacometti was bellowing. Yuuri slipped his arm away from Giacometti quickly and bowed absent-mindedly to the clapping audience. Victor smiled. Giacometti let Yuuri slink away with Minako for a quick costume exchange. “Meanwhile,” the Swiss man went on, fluffing his cravat, “we will give you Act . . .”

“Act III,” Popovich supplied, in a whisper so loud even Victor could pick up on it.

“Act III from tonight's opera,” Giacometti went on smoothly, as if nobody had noticed his mind going blank. “The ballet, Messieur Conductor. The ballet!”

The second the stagehands and the dancers realized the plan, the back of the stage burst into a frenzy of activity to prepare the scene quickly for the audience. Down in the pit in front of the stage, the musicians were leafing through sheet music faster than monks through a prayerbook at bedtime.

Satisfied that his point was made, Victor turned round. One final prank remained, its target the armed gentleman occupying box five under a misguided sense of friendship. That was when he saw the stagehand but ten feet directly to his right. The boy was standing on the same ropes as Victor, one hand gripping for support, the other bearing a spare piece of plywood aloft like a club.

“You won't be haunting this place much longer, Opera Ghost,” the boy said, black eyes burning, but voice quavering slightly. He looked scarcely twenty.

Victor thought of the last time someone raised an object to strike him, picturing eyes as blue as his own and the glint of metal sharp, cold, and relentless.

 _How brave. Foolishly brave, and tragic,_ Victor thought. _I may have forgiven you raising your voice, but never, ever raising your hand against me._

The boy surged forward along the footholds in the ropes. Victor simply ripped the blade he kept as a token from its leather sheath at his side and slit the rope supporting the boy's arm. The boy shrieked, tumbling forward. Unable to regain his balance, he tangled his arms and legs in the rope lattice making up the footholds.

_Well, what a very fine fly you make in this web. You'll be the perfect example; I won't even need to frighten Giacometti's friend now, Victor mused. It's a pity I can't just slit your throat, too, but it would pollute my stage. And the bloodstains might never come out._

* * *

The curtain had scarcely opened upon Act III and its group of shepherdess ballerinas when Yuuko noticed a boy convulsing from a noose just above the dancers' heads. She screamed; the other dancers stopped, stared, and joined their voices in the screaming, a symphony of pain and disbelief and fear. Yuri jumped to his feet, leaping down from box six. The audience threw themselves into a tumult, and nothing Giacometti or Popovich stuttered did anybody any good. Yuri pushed past people as fast as he could, dashing for the stage. 

But by the time he got past the panicking crowd, and jumped up onto the floorboards to stand among the terrified ballerinas, the boy was dead, mouth and eyes distorted like something from a penny dreadful. The rope slackened and dropped him in a heap. Yuri shook his his fist at the empty rafters; there was no sign of the Opera Ghost in sight. He squeezed Yuuko's shoulder gently as Takeshi knelt beside her, trying to coax her off the stage to go see their daughters.

_Yuuri._

Not caring at this point whether the audience stayed or left, he ran as fast as he could to Minako's sewing room. Not ten paces from the door, Yuuri met him. The singer was wearing only a fluffy pink petticoat and white corset, having abandoned preparation for the lead role midway.

“Quick, Yuri, we're not safe here! Come with me!” Yuuri urged him, grabbing Yuri's hand with one hand and a warm red cape from Minako's outstretched hand in the other. 

“Look after each other!” Minako warned, eyes wide but determined. “Celestino and I will see to everything else.”

“That woman's a marvel,” Yuri muttered, nearly tripping as Yuuri dragged him with staggering strength at a leg-numbing pace. They sped and spun past blurs of frenzied people, up this hall and down that, till they were winding further and further up a spiraled flight of stairs. 

_Why are we going up to escape a man who kills in mid-air?_ Yuri wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was SO hard trying to decide how to set up "Il Muto." Also Yuuri's shake-out waistcoat-turned-skirt was inspired by [these costumes](http://imgur.com/gallery/5XH2kGM) worn by TM Revolution and Mizuki Nana. [Video here](https://vimeo.com/83491176). Holy cow. Magnificent.
> 
> Buquet (the guy who hangs to death) is not replaced by any YOI characters and is nameless in this fic, because I can't bear any YOI characters dying, man.
> 
> After writing this chapter, I have visions of Yuri yelling “Just DO IT, baka!” Which is actually really motivational. Also, Yuri hates sand almost as much as Anakin Skywalker.
> 
> Substituting “pig” for “toad” in the famous line was 25% of this story's inspiration. (The rest was 25% Yuuri in dresses, 25% Dark!Victor, and 25% an excuse for Yuuri/Yuri.) Neither Victor nor Yuri will ever call Yuuri “pig” in this fic. That nickname is the only thing I come close to hating about the show. There are ways to encourage people to take care of themselves, but teasing/fat-shaming isn't one of them. People call themselves fat in their minds all the time (even when they're not fat), no need to echo it aloud.
> 
> Yuuri being flattered by other people's amorous feelings was hard to write. Since I'm asexual, my knee-jerk reaction to confessed (or poorly concealed) attraction is wait, what, why, no. (Case in point, coworker who keeps making eyes at me sat near me in the breakroom and tried to be smooth. It was funny.)
> 
> Yuuri and Yuri talking in the carriage was a very difficult scene to write because I couldn't pin down the right atmosphere. (Especially with Yuri going from Aww to Grr into two seconds flat.) But I felt they needed a good DTR. Hope I did our boys justice!
> 
> Google informs me the origin of the word "pussyfooting" is 1893 in America. We'll pretend 1880 in France is close enough, for the sake of _Yuri Plisetsky_ saying _pussyfooting_.


	5. Strawberries Staining the Snowbanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gargoyle and countless snowflakes bear silent witness to heartfelt words spoken on a rooftop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Yuri!!! on Ice, or any of the characters. All I got is imagination and a bit o' insomnia.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for your encouraging kudos, comments, and bookmarks. I'd been in a writing funk for like 2-3 years before starting this fic. Thanks for helping jump-start my muse! Constructive criticism is welcome, it helps me hone my craft.
> 
> This chapter's title was inspired by Christine's [“All I Ask of You” outfit](http://www.phantomess.com/images/moviecouples/christineandraoul/aiaoy/aiaoy4.jpg). Gah, it's so friggin' gorgeous.
> 
> There are too many POV switches again in this chapter. It's hard work (which is why there's not much pretty purple prose, wah). The flow isn't quite right. But it's so much more fun to be inside every main character's head, and feel and see as they do.
> 
> Also, the guy who died in the previous chapter was actually named Buquet in the movie. For some silly reason, I thought it was Gibbs (the role the same actor plays in Pirates of the Caribbean).

Yuuri dragged Yuri after him up the spiraled staircase, hurtling forward as fast as he could without casting either of them off-balance. Too upset to keep silent, he sang quietly, hoping the swirling, panicked thoughts in his head would calm a little if he gave them a voice.

 _My God, who is this man?_  
_Who hunts to kill,_  
_I can't escape from him._  
_I never will!_

The Vicomte was singing along behind him, worried about the safety of the staff and patrons, about whether this incident might oblige the opera to close for a time. Yuuri ran up, up, up, until they arrived at the door leading to a level portion of the roof. He threw it open and dragged Yuri over the threshhold behind him. Yuri shut the door, still holding Yuuri's hand, like he was afraid Yuuri would disappear if he let go.

Yuri was staring at the singer. Yuuri seemed unable to string two words together to form coherent thought, now he had finished singing. He knew Yuri was waiting for him to say something. Mutely (and it must be hard for the Vicomte to be mute), Yuri lead him by the hand to the balustrade along the edge of the level court on the roof. 

For a couple moments, they simply stood side-by-side. Neither spoke. They breathed, letting shared silence clear their churning minds.

Yuuri watched snowflakes flurry down, down, down, losing sight of them in the throng of white about halfway to the ground. He was a little relieved he could be himself around Yuri. No need to keep it together, to pretend he was alright, to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

He could be broken, and could trust Yuri to be there for him. And Yuri wouldn't try to fix him as quickly as possible to soothe an annoyed conscience.

“We're going to need to do something about this,” said Yuuri, surprised at his own voice being first to break the silence. “I don't know what, but Victor isn't going to stop unless we motivate him.”

“Motivation is everything for him, that's for sure. Inspiration, too,” said the Vicomte. Yuuri looked up to his left at the Vicomte's expression, and quickly looked down again. There was too much unbridled admiration in the piercing blue-green eyes.

No wonder that the Vicomte was always cloaking his emotions, or only showing anger or annoyance—when he let other emotions filter through, it was . . . startling how intense his feelings were. The Vicomte clearly had a delicate, even affectionate soul, for all his grousing. Like a sea urchin with a core made of the finest crystal glass.

 _Did I just compare the boy who fancies me to a sea urchin_? Yuuri wondered. _Yes. Yes, I did indeed._

All off-balance metaphors aside, Yuuri was grateful he didn't have to be alone in his anxiety. Yuri was proving to be very dependable and reliable.

“I'm sorry, Yuuri.”

“What?” Yuuri wasn't sure he had heard correctly. But he kept his eyes plastered to the white-dust view of the Paris streets. Now he knew he couldn't meet Yuri's gaze when the Vicomte was too worried and upset to guard his emotions.

“I'm sorry,” said the Vicomte. In his peripheral vision, Yuuri saw the Vicomte turning away from the balustrade and leaning against it with back and folded arms. Whether it was for Yuuri's comfort or his own, he couldn't tell. “This was supposed to be another big performance and defining moment for you tonight. And it was ruined.”

Yuuri nodded. “I don't want to ever get on that stage again, frankly.”

“Not while we have to worry about the Ghost of the Ice dropping another body on it,” said Yuri, smothering a snort. He leaned on one leg and tapped irritably with the other foot, looking like he was two seconds away from trying to kick down the balustrade. “You do realize, Yuuri, we're going to have to be rid of him, somehow. I know you are attached, but . . .” He let the words trail off to join the falling slowflakes, loath to say what they were both thinking.

“There's nothing for it,” said Yuuri. “I wish, oh I so wish I could reason with him. But I don't dare, Yuri. I don't. He will do as he pleases . . . and now we know what pleases him.” His hands curled into fists, and he looked down and saw that his knuckles were a stark white against the folds of the red cape.

“I don't know _how_ we can get rid of him, though,” Yuri went on. His tapping foot increased its speed, matching his agitation. “There is nothing that would compel him to leave—nothing peaceful or profitable or practical, anyway. Right now, I think the only thing that will force his hand is . . . his own safety.”

“You can't be talking about barging down beneath the opera, sword and musket and clumping boots,” said Yuuri. He stared at a carriage threading its way down the road away from the opera house, imagining armed men marching in time with the horse's hooves. “There will be a lot of blood. He probably has traps set everywhere. That's his realm, not ours.”

“You make a fair point,” said Yuri, grumbling a little nonetheless. “We'll have to find a way to lure him out. Some other time. Right now, it behooves us to secure the opera house and every corner inside it. We don't want him hiding any nasty surprises in our own realm.”

Yuuri nodded. “Somehow, I feel this is all my fault.” The stone gargoyle to his right seemed to agree with him, its curled sneer looking like visual a condemnation that would never fade with time.

“It isn't!” Yuri insisted, voice rising loud and fierce in Yuuri's left ear. 

“I know—but my mind tilts to that thought anyway,” said Yuuri. “Surely as a carriage careening down a slope. Why was I so naive as to think he was like my parents? Why did I trust him so implicitly?”

“Don't torment yourself,” said Yuri. “He's been mentoring you since you were a kid, right? He's doubtless used that against you. How were you to read his intent when you were a kid, still mourning your parents?”

“I suppose you are right,” said Yuuri. “But I can't absolve myself completely. He never went to this extreme. Not until he decided to be _my_ advocate . . .”

“ _He_ decided,” Yuri was quick to supply. “Just like he decided to taunt the managers into a feud, to sabotage and humiliate Jean Jacques (which alright, he did have coming). Just like he decided to end the life of that poor man Buquet. Nothing of this can be laid on your shoulders. You would have used your own body as a shield, if you could have. That's how you are.”

Yuuri felt his shoulder being squeezed, and smiled at the reassurance. It didn't wash away all guilt, but it did help him recognize the guilt was unfounded. Another intrusion he could blame on to his nerves.

“You would have tried to save Buquet, too,” he said.

“Yuuri, do you _have_ to _always_ deflect compliments?” The Vicomte's tone was long-suffering and dramatic.

Finally, Yuuri looked up at Yuri again. The Vicomte's mouth was twisted in a grimace, as if Yuuri had forbidden him to eat _pirozhki_ forever and always. “Do you have to always pretend you don't have feelings?” Yuuri countered.

Yuri wrinkled his nose and pouted at him.

Again, they lapsed into silence, staring out into the night.

“You are not cold, are you, Yuuri?” Yuri asked, voice slightly muffled. 

Yuuri looked up and saw Yuri had moved. Now he was facing forward with Yuuri, leaning on the balustrade, mouth pressed up against his coat sleeves, not even caring if snow soaked his outer layers of clothing.

“No. Are you?” Yuuri asked.

Yuri shook his head.

“I . . . I wish my parents hadn't died,” said Yuuri, before he could realize he was voicing his thoughts aloud. “Then none of this would have happened.”

“Careful, Yuuri, that's a dangerous road to go down,” said Yuri, glaring up at him from his crossed arms. “Thinking that will only do you harm. And I will kick anyone who does you harm. Even you.”

Yuuri couldn't let that one slide. “If you kick me, you'll end up kicking yourself afterwards,” he said.

Yuri grinned up at him. “Indeed. A sacrifice I'm willing to make, if it helps you.”

Yuuri smiled back wryly. Yuri knew him so well, he was purposely coaxing Yuuri's spirited and stubborn side to emerge to bolster his mood. Victor didn't know how to do that yet—he kept expecting Yuuri to turn pliant and malleable. But Yuuri was grown in to his own—he wasn't a dewy-eyed child to be molded at will. He just needed someone to help him beat back the intrusive whispers that he was worthless.

 _This boy_ , Yuuri thought. _He's going to start mothering me like Yuuko, in his own acerbic way, if he gets any fussier._

* * *

Yuri had to smother a sigh of relief by pressing his lips to his sleeves and taking a couple deep breaths through his nose. He stared out at the streets below them, wondering how long it would take a coin to drop to the cobblestones, and how many slowflakes it could take with it along the way.

He had been afraid Yuuri would trace events all the way back to his parents' deaths, and wish they had never passed, that he had never come to the opera house, that he had never met Victor. And true to form, Yuuri's mind had gone there even sooner than Yuri had surmised.

But he was glad that Yuuri was alright with frivolous distractions.

 _What is it about teasing those whom we love_? Yuri thought. _It's so much more fun than teasing people who don't matter as much, ironically. Perhaps because there's endless opportunity, since we know them well and spend much of our time with them_.

For the first time in days, he didn't mentally or physically flinch upon realizing he classed Yuuri as a loved one now, along with his grandpa and his cat. He was growing eerily accustomed to it. It almost didn't upset him that Yuuri had effortlessly wormed past all his emotional bulwarks. Soon, he'd be so far gone, he'd probably ask Yuuri to plunge his hand through his chest and then thank him for it.

_Yuri Plisetsky, you are a blithering idiot._

“Thank you, Yuri.”

“Huh?” Yuri wasn't exactly sure his ears were being truthful with him. His eyes swerved from the cobblestones below, trailing up to to Yuuri's face.

“I said thank you,” said Yuuri, louder, but still quiet, as if he thought speaking too loud would awaken the gargoyle behind him. “You're good. Too good to be mixed up in this.”

“As are you,” said Yuri.

This time, Yuuri didn't try to downplay his words, but nodded, as if he'd accepted he'd have to forgive Yuri's occasional compliments. Like he forgave Yuri's swearing and restless energy and penchant for leopard print. This Yuri was grateful for. He'd already gone past the stage of forgiving Yuuri's arresting eyes and mesmerizing dances and guileless charm (after Yuuri finally grew comfortable). 

Now Yuri just had to work on forgiving himself. Partly for not reaching out to Yuuri long ago. Partly for participating in a rash move to provoke the Opera Ghost. But mostly for wanting to fling himself over an elevated ledge every time he saw Yuuri, and realized how miserable he'd be if Yuuri didn't fancy him back. He'd live, alright. It would just mean he'd be twice as irritable.

He couldn't even congratulate himself that Yuuri had ruled Victor out as a suitor. Victor had effectively sabotaged himself _by killing a man_. There was nothing to celebrate about that.

“I hope Jean-Jacques is alright,” Yuuri went on.

Yuri snorted. “You're _definitely_ too good.” Mentally, he added, _No wonder Victor was drawn to you. Probably thought he could cleanse that black soul of his just by being near you._

“Don't be so quick to judge,” said Yuuri, smile turning wry again. Yuri hated and adored his wry smiles. It was like a promise in a language he couldn't understand. He couldn't guess if Yuuri meant something devious (because _Yuuri_ being _devious_ had to mean all around him were _doomed_ ). Or simply meant to put him on guard for no reason and watch him bristle. “I was very close to leaving pins in choice places,” Yuuri continued, “when I was helping with his costume.”

Yuri was grinning back at him before he could stop himself. “And I judge you are _still_ too good, because you did nothing. Were I in your shoes, I would have probably slipped a dead snake in his petticoats.”

* * *

Yuuri shook his head, fondness welling up within him in spite of himself. Picturing an image of Jean-Jacques Leroy running past, screaming about snakes and kings not getting along. Yuri could be a bit ridiculous and over-the-top at times, but his loyalty was fierce and deep, more striking than Yuuri had anticipated.

With a small start, Yuuri realized he trusted Yuri. Completely. For a moment, that knocked the breath from his lungs. Trust was a blind gamble, dangerous and terrifying, not to be taken lightly, not to be given lightly. If at all.

He had once trusted Victor.

But Yuri wasn't Victor. Yuri was content to let Yuuri do as he pleased, though he would yell at him to cut through Yuuri's liaisons with melancholy. Yuri wanted whatever was best for Yuuri . . . even if _that_ wasn't what Yuri himself would choose. Yuri was human, arrogant, surly, prone to mistakes, and would ignore highborn courtesies when he could get away with them—but he would never ignore or trample on the well-being of others.

Yuuri could rely on him. And as Yuuri watched a snowflake come just shy of falling on the tip of Yuri's nose, Yuuri felt his hands curling into resigned fists. He wanted to be able to rely on Yuri for the rest of his life. Not just as a friend, not just as the patron of the stage he performed upon. But under the exclusive right that made Yuuri come first in Yuri's eyes. As his lover.

Suddenly his lungs were beginning to ache and burn. Yuuri let out a long, shaky breath and breathed in deeply. He hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath, until his body protested.

 _I don't believe it. I told Victor I wouldn't let Yuri trifle with any of the dancers here. I told him Yuri had no thoughts of me like that. Now look at me. I'm going to end up sounding like a fool before the night's out, and ask Yuri to eat_ katsudon _and_ pirozhki _together for the rest of our lives, or something. I simply know it._

“Oh, Yuri,” the singer whispered. 

“Huh?”

Yuuri turned to look at the Vicomte. Yuri's blue-green eyes were churning with many emotions. Yuuri thought he could pick out hope, but also reluctance and trepidation. Maybe even fear. Yuri was also smoothing down his outer coat, the way he usually smoothed his animal print vests.

“Thank you.”

Yuuri wanted to go on, thanking him for trying to reconnect in his own way. For helping him master his own mind. For teaching him to drive a carriage. For making him laugh. For listening to him when he argued. For befriending his friends, Yuuko especially. For being Yuri. But his throat closed up as surely as if a noose were leashed around it.

“You're welcome,” said the Vicomte. His tone was gruff as he could manage, as if it were a chore to be polite when there was nothing there but them, the gargoyle, and the snowflakes. But Yuuri knew that Yuri was touched, all the same.

* * *

When Yuuri whispered his name, Yuri felt every muscle in his body freeze in terror. He didn't know what the low but expressive tone meant. But it meant something. But then Yuuri was thanking him, and the Vicomte felt the tension ooze out his fingers and toes, to his great relief. Yuuri was just glad he was there, and for now, that was enough. With most people, Yuuri would have slipped away to be upset alone.

But then Yuuri lapsed into silence again, and the tension returned as if someone were tightening his tendons like harp strings. Yuri began to worry it wasn't a peaceful silence, but the kind that meant Yuuri was undergoing acute torture from his own mind. 

The Vicomte wanted to start a cheery subject, but he couldn't think of anything, save what he'd already said. His mind swirled with worries about the Ghost of the Ice.

“Yuri?” the singer asked, suddenly speaking in a voice that was loud for Yuuri. Yuri nearly started in surprise. 

“Yes?”

Yuuri blushed, as if he were shocked by his own voice, and said, “Do—do you think someone capable of murder would wait until they are thirty-two to kill?”

Yuri felt as if he couldn't support his own weight anymore, and groped blindly at the balustrade for support. “You think Buquet wasn't his first victim?”

“He killed a man within minutes in front of hundreds. I don't think he planned to kill Buquet. But he knew exactly what to do when opportunity arose,” said Yuuri. He looked as if something were stabbing him as he spoke. “He also knows so much. He's well read, but some of the things he does, the skills he has . . . all this makes me think he's well-traveled, too. He's of Russian descent, like you. Maybe he didn't come to France until he was a youth, or even older. What if he has other victims in other cities or countries? What if he has other victims here in Paris that we don't know about?”

Yuuri looked at him with despair, as if the blood of who knew how many men were on Yuuri's hands, just from associating with the Ghost of the Ice.

“Let's not get carried away just yet,” he said. He couldn't banish the tremor from his voice, though. He'd been so upset about Buquet, about the traumatized staff and audience, about Yuuri, he hadn't even thought about how efficient Victor had been with his kill. He was impressed with Yuuri's attention to detail. Leave it to Yuuri to notice sordid, horrifying things in sharp relief. “Does anything stand out to you, from his lair—er, his realm, down below? Did anything there give you reason to think him hardened to killing?”

Yuuri's brows furrowed, and he glared at him. Yuri was surprised, until the singer said, “Are you talking about trophies? There weren't any bloodied scalps hanging on a clothesline, if that's what you mean.”

Yuri snorted. “No, I didn't mean that,” he said apologetically, realizing Yuuri must have thought his question patronizing. “What I meant was, you mentioned he knows and does things none of us would know or do. What was it like with him there, Yuuri?”

“Enchanting,” said Yuuri. His breath slowed with residual awe, as if the very memory was binding him under a spell. Yuri's fists clenched on top of the balustrade. He had to slow his own breathing as well, to distract himself, or he'd probably start chucking snowballs at the gargoyle. 

“He had a world of his own down there,” the singer went on. Yuuri's brown eyes took on a faraway cast, almost the way they looked when Yuri knew he was thinking about the sea. “Everything of his own make, own choosing. Except the limits—he was caged beneath the opera house. And, I felt a little caged, too, though I don't think he _meant_ to make me feel that way. Like . . . like I was being expected to take on role, when I wasn't on the stage anymore.”

Yuri wanted to hiss. He did indeed tease Yuuri, and called him out on everything under the sun and more. But anyone pressuring Yuuri into becoming anything other than _Yuuri_ made his blood boil. Was Victor mad? How could he love someone but want to rebuild them and fashion them after his own image?

“Everything there was so beautiful,” Yuuri went on. His fingers idly played with a bit of frothy pink fabric peeking out from beneath the red velvet of his cape. “Like a dream spun into something corporeal. He was beautiful. And he found me beautiful. But . . . he doesn't treat me the same way you or my other friends do. I realize that now. You give me the push I need when I need it, but you never push too far, so that I'm overwhelmed. You, Minako, Celestino, Yuuko, Mila, Phichit . . . you all give me space, if I need it. 

“Victor is . . . very insistent. And . . . I'm not sure I can trust his apologies now. 

“How is he going to try to soothe away a young man's death, Yuri? Will he just turn his palms upwards and say he didn't realize killing a man would make me fret, but now he does, he will mend his ways? Do I even want to hear how he will rationalize this? Does he even realize just how serious this is? Does he realize I can't abide the thought of being touched by hands that have hanged a man?”

“You don't have to talk to him. Not unless you want to,” said Yuri. “I have a few _choice words_ , should you wish me to contact him.”

“Anything more eloquent than expletives?”

“Yes. The expletives merely serve as punctuation.”

Yuuri laughed, and Yuri felt slightly less dismal about their chances of being happy in future. Perhaps Yuuri would even recover spirits enough to attend the Masquerade Ball, if the opera still went through with its plans to host it. Quite a few of Yuri's hopes were riding on that ball's success.

* * *

Victor's fingers played with the trailing silver ribbon spilling from the stem of the rose he had slipped in his breast pocket. He paced back and forth between the thin walls separating the chapel from the hall. Yuuri wasn't at the shrine. He wasn't in his room, or Minako's sewing room, or any of his usual haunts.

Victor had waited first in the gondola, thinking Yuuri would slip out to see him. When the silence mocked him, he checked with each of Yuuri's friends, careful not to make a sound between walls or in corners. But none of them had Yuuri at their side. 

_Utterly useless._

Victor wanted to scream in frustration. His blood was practically bubbling with the thrill of a successful hunt. It was exhilarating, thinking of how _terrified_ he had rendered all below him when he stood along the ropes above the stage. All he had executed was a few swift motions with his arms, looping and tightening rope around the man's neck and pitching him downward. And yet, he had surprised more people in a few heartbeats than he had ever surprised before. Not even his days as an entertainer in the palace of a young princess could compare. 

But he couldn't relish this victory, this nail in the coffin of disrespect, until he pacified Yuuri. Until he explained that the man had been a threat, and that Victor simply had to act in self-preservation. Truthfully, Victor could have simply slashed his cheek in warning and fled, and the boy would have probably quit and left the opera. 

But Victor had wanted to make an example of him. He knew that Yuuri, as he was now, would never understand that reasoning. Gentle Yuuri would have to be eased into such a frame of mind, with calculated subtlety. 

He almost bumped against the dusty wall in his preoccupation. _Where is my Yuuri? Why is he hiding from me?_ Victor had assumed Yuuri would all-but smash down the mirror and barrel to the gondola to demand an explanation. It was baffling that he disappeared instead. _It seems Yuuri is determined to surprise me tonight, too._

He pacing stopped abruptly as he remembered there was _one friend_ he had not checked. The preening little Vicomte. For the first time that day, Victor felt truly shaken. _I'm underestimating him. That invective-spitting vermin will stop at nothing to supplant me._ Heart-rate speeding up, Victor turned heel and took the fastest shortcut he could brave to the stables. 

He would have to act fast if he didn't want to spend days, perhaps weeks, coaxing Yuuri into trusting him again, if the Vicomte poisoned him against Victor. And there wasn't a doubt in Victor's mind that was exactly what the Vicomte was doing now. If he wasn't already trying to get into Yuuri's pants.

_Wait for me, dearest, and don't shut me out. And if you do, know I never stay shut out for long._

The stables were empty, save for the house horses and the Victomte's nag and the stable boys, situated like a Parisian nativity scene. Victor let out a long breath. The Vicomte hadn't swept Yuuri off yet; this was the first good discovery. He tried to think of where Yuuri would go, if he wasn't choosing a favorite setting—and then realized Yuuri had done the exact opposite. He had probably chosen the last place anyone would expect a man who got nervous at the slightest things to go— _the dazzlingly high roof._

 _The place most difficult for me to hide,_ Victor mused, _and furthest away from my little kingdom beneath the opera house._

As he sped away from the stables, keeping to the shadows, he didn't care whether anyone heard phantom footsteps. He had to get to that roof and get behind one of the gargoyles, and fast, before Yuuri or Yuri thought to tie threads behind them to betray his presence. He wanted to think Yuuri was incapable of trying to trap him—but at this point, Victor had operate under the assumption that Yuuri might be under the Vicomte's sway already.

_Damn that petite monster._

It took even longer than Victor feared to reach the top, for he had to wait a few breaths here and there for someone to turn their head or walk down a hall. But finally, finally, he slipped through the trapdoor he put in one corner of the slanted roof, while his Yuuri and the enemy Yuri were turned away from him next to a balustrade. He softly tread along sloped tiles and shingles, until he curled up behind the gargoyle by Yuuri. He felt like his situation was a mockery of a child staying up to watch his parents talking well past his bedtime.

“Yuuri,” Victor heard the Vicomte say. “I'm not going to ask you to abandon your singing career, but would you leave Ice Castle Opera? At least for a little while. Go somewhere he can't get to you, just until we can find a way to be rid of him.”

Victor gritted his teeth. He watched Yuuri's profile betray surprise, but then Yuuri turned away from Victor to look at the Vicomte for a moment. When he snapped back to look ahead, Victor could see a touch of fondness softening his brown eyes. “I was just going to ask you if you would like to be away from all this for a while,” Yuuri said, smiling and staring down at his toes.

Victor had half a mind to walk out from behind the gargoyle and toss the runt of a Vicomte over the balustrade, then watch him kiss the cobblestones at breakneck speed. But he knew it would serve no purpose. Yuuri would fling himself into the way to protect the brat, as if his latest role were Pocahantas protecting John Smith. Yuuri seemed to have a predilection for playing or befriending martyrdom.

* * *

When Yuuri admitted to have considered leaving already, Yuri was glad the singer had looked away. He wasn't able to contain a gleeful smirk. He probably looked like a fool. _We're thinking of the same things at the same time again,_ Yuri thought. _Just like how he started to beat me to starting sand fights, just before I left to go back to home and grandpa._

Aloud, he said, “Maybe we should take a furlough from Paris and go to a beach somewhere?”

“That would make things simpler for us,” said Yuuri, turning back to him, eyes shining a shade similar to coffee in the morning. “But I worry Victor might lash out at those here who can't just up and leave. I must stay, I'm afraid, no matter what. You can go—”

“How can you say that I can go?” the Vicomte was shrieking before he could stop himself.

“Because Victor won't chase after you—he'd probably smirk and say good riddance, actually,” said Yuuri, eyes shifting to look up at an angle, no doubt picturing how Victor would look if he learned Yuri had turned tail. Yuri figured he would polish his damn horns, rub his hands together, and cackle a bit before coughing and drinking some old man tea to soothe his old man throat.

“Think about it, Yuri,” said the singer, looking at him earnestly. Yuri hated when Yuuri looked earnest—it made Yuri feel as if nothing else in the world existed but those too-expressive eyes and whatever dream or determination lay behind them. “If one of us were to leave, it would need to be you. He won't chase you; he would certainly chase me.”

“Yuuri.”

“He's probably more likely to settle down, perhaps even grow complacent, with you out of the picture.”

“Yuuri.” 

“Perhaps you should just take Jean-Jacques and Giacometti and Popovich with you, under some excuse of an outing or something. After we've come up with a plan to subdue him somehow.”

“YUURI!”

Yuuri's eyes jerked from watching falling snowflakes, focusing on the Vicomte with confusion. “Yes?”

“I'm not leaving,” said the Vicomte. _There is no way in hell. If he loses his temper and harms you because you won't let him have his way, I'll never forgive myself for not being there to support you._ “Not while some madman trying to live out an impossible fantasy has his eyes on you.”

“He won't take his eyes off me, Yuri.”

* * *

_Won't take my eyes off you? Ah, how well you know me, Yuuri,_ Victor thought. He had to catch himself, before he purred in his throat and betrayed his presence. _Pity you don't know my eyes are on you right now._

Yuri, the human pestilence, nodded at Yuuri. “That's why I can't leave, Yuuri. I'm touched you worry for my safety, but you're the one he wants to cage. Not me. So long as his eyes are on you, mine will be, too.”

“So you'll ignore me the second he's out of the picture?” the singer teased.

Oh, Yuuri, Victor thought, leaning his cheek against the gargoyl's curling wing. _You are a delight—but why must you delight_ him _like that? And what is this business about a cage? Is it wrong to want Yuuri to stand by me, always?_

Yuri jostled Yuuri's shoulder. Victor saw red. “No,” Yuri countered. “I'll never to be able to ignore you, even when I'm pretending. And you know it.”

“You had me quite convinced when you first arrived . . .”

The Vicomte actually growled a little. “Don't make me kick you, Yuuri.”

“I won't make you,” said Yuuri, and to Victor's dismay, he jostled back. “I will be my usual self, and you'll _decide_ to kick me.”

Yuri cast his eyes to the heavens.

Victor felt as if he had missed something.

“Speaking of decisions,” said Yuuri. There was something strange in his tone. Something Victor had never heard before, not with that combination of wistfulness and embarrassment and tenderness. He suspected he would not like what was about to follow at all. He began looking about his feet, hoping for a stray pebble to throw for a distraction. The only object available to be thrown was the rose in his breast pocket.

Victor watched as Yuuri fidgeted frantically with the ties of the red velvet cape. It looked very fetching on him, the kind of adornment that a robin's feathers afforded a grey morning. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again several times, as if trying to summon a voice long dead. Looking directly at the Vicomte, or looking out into the night didn't seem to help, so he turned his back on Yuri, and Victor suppressed a snicker.

“I . . . I'd like to accept your offer. To go beyond friendship.”

Beyond Yuuri's shoulders, Victor saw the Vicomte turn white as a sheet, eyes blown wide with shock. 

Victor had the rose stem out of his pocket and clenched in both hands before he knew it. He could feel thorns biting through his gloves.

Yuuri's face rippled with emotion like the surface of a lake. He was nearly as red as his cape, and he bit his lip as if worrying it would make him calmer. In his eyes gleamed a kinship, like the Vicomte was someone he felt would never fail him. 

Yuuri turned around, facing his childhood friend and turning his back on Victor. 

_Turn back to me, Yuuri. Turn back. Please. If you want someone who never fails, choose me. You must choose me. For both our sakes._

“I have decided I'd like that very much indeed,” said Yuuri. His voice was quiet, but very firm and determined. It was the voice Yuuri used when Victor instructed to tell himself that he would love to sing on the stage, that he would be magnificent while singing on the stage, that Victor would be proud of him after singing on the stage. Victor felt as if someone has smashed the only window filtering light into his soul, and thrown its shards into his heart.

Victor idly wondered why Yuri looked almost as broken as he felt.

* * *

“Really?” Yuri breathed, staring at his childhood friend in disbelief. Yuuri had developed feelings, and feelings for _him_? A _foul-tempered_ heir who loved cats and disliked people? How was this possible? Yuri had been so sure it would have taken more time for Yuuri to feel comfortable with the idea. He had been mentally steeling himself to be patient for weeks, and let Yuuri dictate his own pace.

And now Yuuri's pace had stolen his breath.

Yuri couldn't stop tears from breaking trails down his cheeks. The avalanche of relief, in the wake of an acute suspense that choked him more than he knew, had him wishing he could sit down and just _think_. Think, and marvel for a few moments at just how fortunate he was. This was a dizzying amount of trust and regard Yuuri was showing him—especially right after a man he had trusted had shattered Yuuri's faith in him.

Then he blinked and saw that Yuuri was crying, and held his arms opened, half-invitation, half-question. Yuri cried harder and nodded, as if all his emotions were being wrung from him like water from a sponge. Yuuri sprang forward and enveloped him in a hug, which Yuri returned with fists clenched over Yuuri's red cape. Because of the layers upon layers of pink tulle that made up the skirt of Yuuri's costume, he almost felt as if he were embracing a cloud. For a moment, they cried on each other's shoulders. 

Yuri felt guilty for being so distressingly happy, when the rest of the occupants of the opera house were worried for life and livelihood.

* * *

Yuuri hugged Yuri, shocked that he had actually managed to tell Yuri how he felt. It had been so difficult, even when he _already knew_ Yuri's feelings. To make himself vulnerable, to admit to it brazenly, and then ask Yuri to be vulnerable along with him. The emotional equivalent of placing your neck against a naked blade.

But the look on the Vicomte's face had been worth it. He had never been so expressive before; Yuuri could read his every fear and hope in the blue-green eyes. And it made his own fears feel less menacing, and his own hopes feel more real.

Yuri sniffled and tried valiantly to stop crying. Yuuri took a few deep breaths, willing his own tears away.

Together they began singing, Yuuri taking some lines, Yuri taking others. Some they split between them, and some they sang in tandem. It was like dancing together, only with words pouring from shaky breaths billowing white in the night. 

_No more talk of darkness,_  
_Forget these wide-eyed fears._  
_I'm here, nothing can harm you._  
_My words will warm and calm you._

 _Let me be your freedom,_  
_Let daylight dry you tears._  
_I'm here, with you, beside you._  
_To guard you and to guide you._

 _Say you'll love me every waking moment,_  
_Turn my head with talk of summertime._  
_Say you'll need me with you now and always._  
_Promise me that all you say is true._  
_That's all I ask of you._

While they sang, Yuuri could lose himself in the world created by the lyrics, could pretend it was just he and Yuri locked in their own little alcove. Like when they played upon the beach surrounded by sand, salt, shells, and sun. This was the respite they offered each other, to steel themselves before they went back to the respective roles to ensure the legacy of the opera and the people dependent upon it.

When their song was over, and the spell hung suspended in the air, ready to burst asunder like a bubble, Yuuri smiled. And Yuri smiled back, without having to counteract it with a jest or a snort.

* * *

Victor felt his throat constrict as if the ropes from earlier had followed him and latched around his own neck. He wanted to charge forward as the childhood friends smiled at each other, like scales had fallen from their eyes. But he couldn't move. He huddled behind the gargoyle, frozen as if he, too, were made of stone.

And this stasis _terrified_ him. He had never felt the same fear and horror mixed that made Yuuri unable to act sometimes—and now he felt as if he had a lifetime's cares shackled to his limbs. He always rushed headlong into _everything_.

And then . . _and then_.

He watched with absolute shock as Yuuri whispered something too low for him to hear and planted his forehead against the Vicomte's. And then the Vicomte nodded, as if agreeing to something, and suddenly Victor wished sight would leave his eyes, for he knew what was coming.

Yuuri and Yuri kissed.

_Damn you. Damn you both. I was mercifully quick with the stagehand. I won't be with your smug little lover. You should know better than to provoke me now, Yuuri._

The Vicomte and the opera singer parted, Yuuri still whispering. Victor's rage had freed his limbs, and his fingers closed about the sheathed blade at his belt. He was about to scramble over the gargoyle, heedless of whether it would tear his clothes, and see if the Vicomte was more afraid of blades or heights.

Then the door leading to the staircase opened, and Phichit and Giacometti's armed friend barreled over the threshold. The handle of his gun at his side gleamed, and Victor cursed in several languages in his mind. He needed to return to his castle below immediately. Silent and stealthy, he crept back to the trap door, mind already whirring with plans to convince everyone at the Ice Castle Opera that his will was law.

Especially Yuuri. 

_Apparently I have been too indulgent—Yuuri thinks he can take a fancy to anyone without consequences._

* * *

Yuuri was delighted at the surprise blooming on Yuri's face after he whispered to him. He wanted to make Yuri look like the sky was falling, the ground shaking, and the air disappearing, at least once every day. From now until their last days, in exchange for Yuri making him laugh.

He heard the door to the side slam open, and turned on reflex, worried that Victor had thrown caution to the wind and charged up the staircase after them. Phichit and a man with a gun at his hip were standing there, looking at him and Yuri expectantly.

“It's alright to come down now, Yuuri,” said Phichit, smiling even though his eyes were duller than usual, and Yuuri could tell his friend would be shaken for weeks.

“Thank you,” said Yuuri and Yuri, bowing in tandem.

Phichit smirked. “Teaching him better manners already, Yuuri, I'm so proud.”

As the four of them made their way through the door and down the staircase, Phichit shot Yuuri a conspiratorial wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was sufficiently romantic with Yuuri/Yuri, and sufficiently gut-wrenching with Dark!Victuuri. I can't believe I'm writing a love triangle, despite my hatred of love triangles. Wow. 
> 
> “All I Ask of You” is one of the few love songs I adore with a passion. But it's. Just. So. Hard. Writing. Romance. All I wanna do is have the couple sing to the Barney song tune, “I love you, you love me, let's go make some pirozhki!” And then have them dance off into the sunset. So much easier.
> 
> Do you still feel a teensy bit sorry for this Dark!Victor? I kinda don't, but kinda do. Which a testament to how wonderful canon Victor is, I guess. Dark!Victor had the upper hand until he decided to play hangman. He's legit scaring me now. 
> 
> Also, please hate me for taking our fave line “Don't take your eyes off me!” and making it _super creepy_. I hate myself for that, too. Let's all go watch episode 6 to feel better.
> 
> Yuuri's monologue about not trusting a killer mirrors my reaction to the end of _Rebecca_ by Daphne du Maurier (which is AMAZING, BTW). How could the heroine, anxious ball of anxiety that she was, live with Maxim after knowing everything?
> 
> Rant mode activated: The ask-forgiveness-before-permission schtick happens _a lot_ in abusive or manipulative relationships. Both in little matters and in big matters. Often paired with, oh, but I didn't _know_ you'd feel that way, I'm sorry, hurry up and forgive me and get over it, wait why are you still mad? (I haven't experienced it myself. Just witnessed it firsthand. But it's just as upsetting as being the victim, since you can't do squat to make it stop. If you confront, the abuser/manipulator takes out extra anger on the victim when you're gone. It sucks. Hope none of you have to experience it, first or secondhand. And if you have, my respect for dealing with that crap.) 
> 
> Not to say that people are never allowed to make mistakes and then apologize. Everyone makes mistakes. But there's only so many times someone can ignore your wellbeing/wishes/boundaries/dignity, before it stops being an honest mistake, and starts being premeditated conditioning and desensitizing.
> 
> Also, the look Yuri wore after Yuuri whispered to him was inspired by [this screencap](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/5c/c6/6d/5cc66da3b583913819946156dd678b73.jpg) of Yuri gaping at Yuuri's attempted quad flip in episode 7. There are a million favorite moments in YOI, but that's one of my favorite moments in Yuuri and Yuri's relationship. Good quality content, right there.
> 
> Random: Disney's Pocahantas was the first movie I ever saw in a theater. For _years_ , kid me thought the Native Americans and the British were calling each other _cabbages_ , and wondered why they all hated veggies so much. What was your first movie ever seen in a theater?


	6. Black, Gold, and Pink: Masquerade of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri talks to friends, rivals, and lovers. Victor talks to Celestino. Everyone has a ball . . . for a little while. Then Victor reveals his first move in the game of ghost and mouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title was inspired by both Christine's and Raoul's outfits ([here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/97/54/66/9754668472c20dc8f1960f056f93748f.jpg) and [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/16/e5/d8/16e5d86e61476ddbf4900bc616293bbe.jpg)) at the Masquerade Ball. I'm partial to Christine's because IT'S SO FLUFFY, but Raoul's is quite dashing as well.
> 
> Jean-Jacques Leroy is also aged up in this fic, at 26. Is it just me, or is it really hard to believe Leroy is only 19 in canon?
> 
> I am SO SORRY this update took forever. Work stress, cosplay stress, political stress (I'm American), emotional stress, and lack of confidence/inspiration bogged me down. Thank you to all you patient souls following this story for months, and to all you newer readers leaving kudos during my muse drought. I'm so, so humbled and grateful you enjoy this story. Have a fluffy chapter to atone for my sins. (Seriously, I don't think I will ever write anything fluffier. Ever.)
> 
> Smack your self-sabotaging thoughts down, people, and shine on like Yuuri to win!

Yuuri closed the door to the roof behind him and scurried down the steps behind Phichit, Giacometti's friend, and the Vicomte. They wove their way through passages and down more flights of stairs, until they came to the grand staircase careening into the black and white tiled floor of the front chamber.

Giacometti's friend requested that the Vicomte speak with the opera's managers at once.

Yuuri was loath to part from Yuri for the moment. They had just come to an understanding. While Yuuri never felt truly alone in his fears, with the support of all his friends . . . this was different. This was a closeness that was new and thrilling and a trifle scary. But Yuri was the only person he trusted with this connection. He was worth the risk.

Yuri said he had a few words for Giacometti and Popovich himself. The Vicomte shot the singer a curt nod, and Yuuri nodded back at him. Yuri struck up a conversation with Giacometti's friend, and they walked away, leaving Phichit and Yuuri standing side-by-side. Yuuri turned, resigned to the brief interrogation he knew Phichit was dying to unleash.

“Yuuri,” said Phichit, voice quiet and grin broad. “Am I to congratulate you?”

“No,” said Yuuri, half-embarrassed, half-teasing. He fiddled nervously with the edges of his red cape. “We fancy each other. That's all.”

“All?” Phichit laid a hand over his heart dramatically. “That is a great deal, as far as anything concerning _you_ goes.”

“And I _beg_ you would not making any fuss over it,” said Yuuri. “Or else we'll have even worse issues with the Opera Ghost. No congratulatory announcements to the whole opera, even if you're purposely vague. He'll know what you mean.” He turned and strode across the tiles in the direction of the staff private quarters.

“Alright, Yuuri,” said Phichit. At the mention of the Opera Ghost, his amiable grin dampened. Then he recovered, dashing to catch up to him and swinging his arm around Yuuri's caped shoulders. “But the moment everything has settled down again, I may have to hold a party in your honor. A little party.”

Yuuri cast his eyes heavenward—his idea of a little party and Phichit's idea of a little party probably had nothing in common.

Within moments, he found himself standing in front of Jean-Jacques Leroy's room. Phichit was staring curiously at him, and with a start, Yuuri pieced together he must have led them here.

“Yuuri?” Phichit queried. Yuuri raised his hand nervously to knock, then lowered it and clenched it in the folds of his cape instead.

“I—I just wanted to make sure he was alright. He probably is, but . . .” Yuuri gritted his teeth, annoyed at himself. He had many reasons to be anxious and cautious, but surely Jean-Jacques was the least of his worries now. He silently cursed his own mental weakness.

He nearly jumped back in surprise when the door opened and Jean-Jacques stood before him, looking as taken aback as Yuuri felt. Jean-Jacques was back to wearing his usual clothes, black trousers and a green and purple vest over a wrinkled cream shirt.

“Katsuki,” he said, as if to confirm that the person before him was the genuine Yuuri Katsuki, and not an imposter.

“Yes. Er, yes,” Yuuri floundered. _Ah. So eloquent, Yuuri. Poets will sing of your nonexistent wit._ He regretted he was still wearing the white corset and pink underskirt for the role neither of them got to play start to finish. 

“He came to assure himself you were alright,” said Phichit helpfully. He eyed Yuuri, as if to say, _I'll stay if you need me to. Do you?_

Yuuri smiled at Phichit, but subtly waved him on his way. Trying to focus on Phichit's retreating footsteps to distract himself, Yuuri steeled himself and said, “I'm—I'm sorry my mentor sabotaged your performance. Whatever our differences, he had no right to do so. It wasn't his place.”

“You know what happened after we both left the stage, and you're worried about _that_?” Jean-Jacques raised his eyebrows. “Katsuki. It's nothing.”

“Nothing? What—”

Before Yuuri could protest, Jean-Jacques had taken him by the elbow and half-dragged, half-swung him through the doorway. He closed the door behind him. “Yuuri, he could have _poisoned_ me. I'm lucky I'm alive.” His voice was hushed, as if he didn't trust the closed door to keep out eavesdroppers.

Yuuri felt his jaw falling. Jean-Jacques was often overly dramatic, but this concept wasn't too far-fetched.

“And, if anyone should apologize, it should be me,” Jean-Jacques went on. There was a determined set to his jaw, and his eyes were steely with a look Yuuri hadn't seen before. On other people, it would be shame, but it seemed a bit different on Jean-Jacques. “I've been abominable. But, since we're both being honest here . . . you're the first competition I've ever had that truly . . . rankled me. I, I don't think I know how to behave.”

“What?” said Yuuri. Instinctively, he knew he was the first person to challenge Jean-Jacques for the lead roles in a while. _But surely, back when Jean-Jacques was first making a name for himself, he knew what insecurity felt like . . ._

“I _always_ knew I had what it took to be the best,” said Jean-Jacques. “To rule whatever I set my mind to. I had rivalries, but nobody gave me pause, made me worry. I could handle them. Until you. 

“You're younger than me, by three years. You have this self-effacing charm I don't. You are so versatile in the roles you can take on—it's like the music makes a chameleon of you. People look at you, think you're sweet and kind and sensitive, and want the best for you. They see how you have to battle yourself every moment. They admire you. 

“Not so with me. They see how naturally so much comes to me, they see how I tease the competition. They find me annoying. They want to see me falter, to be humbled.”

“Well,” said Yuuri, half-gentle, half-snide, “you do tend to, ah, lord your skills over everyone else.”

“King,” said Jean-Jacques, shrugging with a roguish smirk. For a moment, they stood in almost companionable silence. Then Jean-Jacques went on, “Now, prince, if you would be king, you're going to have to cut ties with your mentor, I'm afraid.”

Yuuri suppressed a sigh. A thousand memories of Victor's attentive tutelage flitted through his mind. The one that lingered the longest was when he was fifteen, and Victor was reading him _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ aloud. Yuuri had found Claude Frollo _absolutely terrifying_. Yuuri shook his head.

“He's already cut them himself,” he said. “He shall try to win me back, too.”

Jean-Jacques crossed his arms. “I don't think anyone here is willing to give you up to him. And you aren't going to give yourself up, either. If you need me to help with anything, however trifling, do tell me.”

Yuuri smiled at him. “Thank you.” He turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder. “What . . . what if I need help with another singer? One who wants to disrupt my performance during dress rehearsal?”

Jean-Jacques' eyes widened, and he had the grace to blush a trifle. “Ah, hmmm,” he said, clearing his throat as if he were about to announce something momentous. _He's possibly even more of a diva than Victor_ , Yuuri thought. 

“Well,” Jean-Jacques said, “if another singer is tempted to do so, I will just have to remind him victory isn't victory if you're underhanded.”

Yuuri called up a mental image of Jean-Jacques scolding himself in the mirror. He felt his lips quirk into a half-smile and nodded.

“Once this hullaballoo is over,” Jean-Jacques went on, “I shall give you a good run for all the choice roles, Yuuri. Mark me, I shall.”

“Don't hold your breath,” said Yuuri, voice quiet but determined. “This may take a while for us to work through. None of us know how to banish the Opera Ghost, only that he must be driven away. He does not relinquish anything easily, as ghosts are wont.”

“Neither do we,” said Jean-Jacques, balling one hand into a fist and shaking it in the air as if he held a banner or flag.

Yuuri smiled at his encouragement, even if it was over the top. As Yuuri walked to the door and yanked it open, Jean-Jacques called after him, “You'll have to get used to losing once everything is back to normal, though!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him, taking care not to close it on the fluffy skirt. He looked up, and saw that now Takeshi was leaning against the wall. By his expectant gaze, Yuuri guessed his friend was waiting for him. It was almost as if Phichit had arranged to make sure Yuuri would not emerge alone. Or perhaps Takeshi had decided that himself.

“Is Yuuko alright?” Yuuri asked.

“Yes,” said Takeshi, taking Yuuri by the elbow and leading him a few doors down to the room that the Nishigori family occupied. Takeshi kicked the ajar door open all the way, and Yuuri saw that the room was empty as they plodded inside. “Yuuko and the girls are cooking in the kitchen,” Takeshi explained, with a fond smile. “Some people have decided we could all use some comfort food.”

Yuuri was amazed that anyone could think of eating while terrified. While he was wont to eat when upset, crippling fear was another thing altogether. But then, he had shared a confession of mutual affection only moments before, so perhaps Yuuri was the strange one at the moment.

He thought of how his mother had a different dish for whatever mood a guest was in, whether tired from travels, mourning a family member or friend, or worried about rumors of war in another part of the continent.

Takeshi motioned an invitation to any chair in the room, but Yuuri declined with a polite shake of his head. He knew neither of them felt like sitting down—their nerves were taught, and standing made it easier to conceal the restless wish to stay in motion.

“Are _you_ alright, Yuuri?” Takeshi asked.

Yuuri had anticipated the question, but not the look that accompanied it. There was a worried, earnest light in Takeshi's eyes, speaking of far more than a friendly inquiry after Yuuri's nerves. It was the look of a man worried about a family member.

“I'm . . . I'm managing, Takeshi,” said Yuuri. It was all he could manage to say.

“Whatever we do,” said Takeshi, hands gripping tight along the edges of the family dinner table, “we must _not_ let the Opera Ghost have his way. Not anymore. _You_ must not let him have his way, Yuuri. I know this is hard for you, considering you were raised looking up to him, but . . .”

Yuuri nodded. “I will never trust him again. I can't. And don't fret, Takeshi. I will look after myself, I promise you. Even Jean-Jacques just gave me a speech about this.”

Takeshi barked out a nervous laugh. “Very well, then. We'll move on to something else. Forgive me if you find this too forward, Yuuri, but . . . what is your relationship to our patron the Vicomte now?”

Yuuri felt his mouth go dry, his heart-rate spike, and the blood start whooshing through his ears. He tried to think of crashing waves and calling gulls to calm himself.

“I . . . we . . . we have feelings for each other. Nothing . . . nothing has been set or decided. Just, well, we cleared the air. Now we both know, and aren't wondering. You see?” Yuuri hoped and prayed desperately that somehow made sense, because he had no idea how to communicate otherwise.

To his surprise and relief, Takeshi was smiling warmly. “Good. Yuuko thought you were starting to return his feelings, but I wasn't sure. She was always better at reading you. _Kami_ , Yuuri, if you don't know how to attract strong-willed, pig-headed Russians without even trying.”

Yuuri laughed.

* * *

Yuri left his meeting with Giacometti and Popovich in their office feeling stupendously irritated. There wasn't a decent idea for how to move forward between the two of them. All they had were far-fetched, half-assed plans that would end in more deaths. _Really, Popovich? Toxic gas? It would filter through cracks and vents, and set the whole opera house into fits and faints within moments. What utter nonsense._

He skidded down hallways, hoping to make it to Minako's sewing room without being stopped by anyone else with dumb, novel ideas on how to die.

His dark scowl sent all whom he came across skittering away, thankfully. Minako's door was shut. He took a couple deep breaths to calm himself so he didn't barrel down the door. Then he knocked quietly and politely, a credit to his upbringing. The door opened just wide enough to let a body slip through, and Yuri found himself being reeled in by Mila's strong grip.

“Hey! I can steer myself, I'm not a boat!” he sniped at her.

“Could have had me fooled, Messieur,” she said, winking slyly and shrugging. The action made the neckline of her black bodice ride higher, and with a pout she tugged it low again.

Minako looked up at them from where she was sewing gold trim onto what looked like a black jacket laid across a manikin. “Ah, Vicomte! You'll be happy to know I'm nearly finished.” She noticed Mila's plunging neckline and rolled her eyes. Mila just grinned.

Yuri smiled at Minako, the first genuine happiness he'd felt since he'd left Yuuri's side earlier. He nodded thankfully, since saying _thank you_ aloud still felt strange. “Good. It took me quite a bit of griping, but I persuaded Popovich and Giacometti to hold the ball in two days' time, as originally planned. You needn't tire yourself, crazy woman.”

Minako nodded back. “I need the occupation, though. How is Yuuri?”

“Shaken,” said Yuri, hands closing into fists before he could stop himself. “His world has been turned upon its head and spun out of control. But . . . I saw something. Something in his eyes. He's terrified, as we all are – but even so, I think he is going to be the one to stop the Opera Ghost. I wish we could instead. I don't want Yuuri anywhere near him. 

“But Minako, would you say I'm right in thinking Yuuri is the only one who could persuade him to back down?”

Minako stepped away from her work, lips pursed, frowning. “I'm not entirely sure,” she said. “I think Yuuri would have to tell the Opera Ghost what he wants to hear. And I don't think Yuuri is willing to do that, truthfully or deceitfully. He doesn't want his former tutor to lash out and hurt anyone else.”

“And I don't think you want to watch Yuuri do that, either,” Mila chimed in, hand on one hip and brows elevated. 

“We're not exactly in a position to do whatever we want,” said Yuri, prying his hands out of their clenched curl and instead smoothing down his speckled waistcoat. This feeling of helplessness only further drove home how spoiled he was by his wealth and independence. Restraint, or rather constraint obliged by an outside force, was not a familiar bedfellow.

“But you still managed to _finally_ plot your course to coming to an understanding with Yuuri,” said Mila, eyes glowing with mirth. “Did you not? I warn you, if you haven't, I may heft you up and throw you.”

“Meddlesome hag,” Yuri sneered at her. “I will answer you only because I know you both care about Yuuri. Yes, he returns my interest, and yes, we're giving each other a chance. But it's all quite new, everything is still developing. Does that satisfy you?”

The squeals of delight emanating from both women were answer enough.

“I know you don't like to talk about the finer feelings, Vicomte,” Minako said, once she'd calmed down a bit, “but I must ask you this one thing: how serious are you in your attachment?”

Yuri was hard pressed to keep his temper in check. “Do you doubt me?” he growled.

“No, not at all!” said Minako, both hands raised in a placating gesture. “I just want to know if you would be willing to include a couple family heirlooms, in your surprise for Yuuri at the masquerade ball.”

“It might be too sudden for you, though,” Mila went on, with a taunting grin.

“Sudden?” Yuri snarled. “Nothing about this is sudden, I'll have you know I've had Yuuri on my mind for years.”

He regretted the words as soon as they escaped him. Minako was past squealing; instead she stared like all breath had been robbed from her body. Mila leaped at him and latched onto his arms and shoulders like he was a favorite pet.

“Unhand me, woman! You're impossible!”

“Oh, if you think _we_ are insufferable,” said Mila, voice light with affection, “you should talk to Phichit for a moment.”

* * *

Victor watched as Celestino seated himself in one of the front-row seats before the stage of the Ice Castle Opera. Celestino grew still as a statue, still as the great room around him, devoid of life. Victor paced in the shadows of box six. He kept waiting for Celestino to stand, to pace, to look around him and wonder where Victor would hide in order to answer his plea.

But Celestino stared straight ahead at the stage. He seemed to fix his gaze upon the place where Buquet's body last rested, less than two hours before his body was examined by a doctor and a Parisian policeman, then removed. Victor felt grudgingly impressed—no one else felt comfortable going anywhere near the stage now. 

He chafed with irritation, meddling with his cufflinks and wondering if it would be one week or two, before everyone got over their fright and resumed performances of _Il Muto_. Didn't they know they had nothing to fear so long as the simply _behaved_? It wasn't a complex concept. They just had to mind their own business and leave Yuuri to thrive.

_Yuuri. My Yuuri._

He reached into his pocket and plucked out two pieces of paper. One was Celestino's hastily scrawled note on the back of a faded newspaper clipping – _O. G., please meet me by the stage, it's an urgent matter._

The other was the blasted dancing engagement card. Victor had lifted the offending article from Yuuri's room, when he waited there for his singer for nearly half an hour. He was amazed that Yuuri had kept the useless trinket from the Vicomte. 

And Yuuri had not shown in his room, not even to curl up in his cot, the singer's favorite sanctum. Yuuri was making a habit of _not showing_.

Perhaps he wouldn't return to a room where Victor could simply walk through the mirror to see him. Yuuri had no reason to fear him, but now Yuuri _did_ fear him, gentle soul that he was. And the burden was on Victor to make him feel safe again.

“Sir!” Celestino did not rise from his seat, but his voice boomed through the amphitheater as well as that of any actor. “If you are here, please tell me. I cannot wait for you much longer. I am needed.”

“Yes, sir? What do you need to tell me?” Victor responded. He warped his voice, so that his words seemed to rise like smoke from the grate beneath the musician's section, just a few paces ahead of Celestino.

To his surprise, he was sure he saw Celestino suppress a wince.

“We have been friends a long time,” said Celestino. “You have not forgotten that it was me and Minako and Yakov who made life possible for you here?”

“I recall very clearly that I did Yakov an indispensable favor,” Victor replied. “And as a result, Yakov offered me sanctuary here and paid my salary. And you and Minako helped me settle in, and procured me what shipments of food and other goods I required.”

“Indeed,” said Celestino. “I am very much regretting all I did to help you, Opera Ghost. Your good deed in saving Yakov from a robber attack does not absolve you from the life you took this evening.”

“You are mistaken,” said Victor. He felt rage curling within his stomach, but he refused to let it break his concentration and give away his location as he spoke. “The meddlesome boy should have known better than to attack _me_. You didn't defend the robber. Why defend him?”

“He was no real threat to you!” Celestino's voice grew even louder, as if he was trying to make his voice reach God in the heavens.

“So you think me unjustified in this?” Victor couldn't stop resentment from seeping into his voice now. _How dare he judge me. He, who can walk the streets without a second glance at his uncovered face. He, who has never had his wings clipped before he even had a chance to fly too close to the sun_.

“Completely unjustified.” Celestino's voice cracked, like a whip lashing uselessly at a stone lion to compel it to move. “The boy was just a convenient excuse for violence you have long denied yourself,” Celestino went on, “a violence you can't suppress forever. And this brief release cost you too much. None of us are willing to overlook murder, Opera Ghost. If you wanted to be the only ghost here, you should have left him to live.”

“Murder?” Victor repeated. His laughter bubbled up unbidden; the idea was preposterous. “Hardly. I would call it rather—”

“It _was_ murder, no need to hide it behind a different guise!” Celestino's rage rang and echoed like a tolling bell. “Ye gods, man, can't you comprehend what you've done?!”

“I know full well I have vexed many,” said Victor. He knew Celestino was upset—the man was so distraught, he could not decide between gods plural, or God singular and capital. But this much vitriol over a man Celestino scare spoke two words to was . . . surprising to him. _Fascinating how a sensitive moral code makes people so high-strung and irritable. Who welcomes such a burden?_

“I doubt you realize _how_ vexed,” said Celestino, voice lowering, but not soft enough to escape Victor.

“So I am coming to understand,” said Victor. He thought of Yuuri's empty room, and how lifeless it was without him in it, like cobwebs spun in the imitation of a bereft nest.

“Because we have, or had, some semblance of friendship,” said Celestino, “and because you meant a lot to Yakov, as much as he'd deny it . . . I will tell you this once. And only once. You must leave this place. Now, of your own volition. Before everyone here unites to drive you out.”

“Including _you_ , Celestino?” Victor prompted. Maybe his voice had a little bit of a wicked, teasing lilt. _Maybe_. He inclined his head to the side curiously, not caring there was no way Celestino could see the gesture.

“Absolutely. Part of my job here is to make sure people have a safe place to work and live. You have violated that safety.” Celestino rose and walked to the end of the row of seats. He tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind his ear and said, “By God, man, if you lay a hand on my ward Yuuri, I will comb every inch of this house till I find one of your secret exits, and I will drag your body out of here myself.”

“I am sorry you feel that way, Celestino. But you may rest assured, Yuuri will always be safe, thanks to me.”

“Thanks to you, Yuuri will probably _never feel safe again_!” Celestino bellowed. Then he lurched out of the grand room as if in a heavy trance.

Victor rolled his eyes. _I off a man, and suddenly everyone thinks I'm unworthy of my Yuuri. I'm better equipped to protect him from the world than the rest of you combined_.

He mentally listed all the failings and weakness of Yuuri's friends. In a sudden moment of clarity, Victor realized he did _not_ approve of the affection and trust Yuuri bestowed on everyone close to him. Not anymore.

At first, only the Vicomte's amorous intentions roused Victor's discontent and resentment. But now . . . now Victor was coming to realize these familial and platonic bonds were a threat as well. They were all shackles to separate him from Yuuri.

Celestino had made it clear he would bar Victor's way. Soon Mila, Phichit, Minako, Yuuko, Takeshi, and probably the rest of the blasted opera house would follow.

This would not do at all.

* * *

The day of the ball dawned and waned quietly and quickly, as everyone at the Ice Castle Opera was busy decorating or sewing or cooking. Everyone ate a light evening meal as a large group (no one went anywhere alone anymore, not even to the johns). Now there were only a couple hours to spare before preparations were complete, and the festivities would begin. 

Yuri stood outside Yuuri's closed door, trying not to fidget, and failing desperately. To his amusement, he could hear Yuri rummaging frantically about inside. Glad that he was not the only one who seemed flustered, he knocked on the door. The noise echoed loudly, and he winced, annoyed at himself for forgetting to tone down a bit.

“Just a moment,” said Yuuri, voice wafting as if from the end of a tunnel. Yuri obliged and waited. But moment after moment passed, and still all the Vicomte heard were sounds of rushing and rummaging and muffled curses. Finally, Yuuri flung open the door, seeming to have given up his quest. 

“I'm – I'm sorry,” the singer stammered. He stepped back to allow Yuri to step inside. “I was looking for your dancing engagement card. I seem to have lost it.”

Yuri could not help but smile at that. “Don't work yourself up about it, you fuss like no one I've ever met,” he said, tone gruff, but not gruff enough to hide that he cared. _Damn_ , he was getting almost soft. Who in blazes cared about anything in this day and age? “It's just a card, and I actually have something that I would use in its place.” And just like that, the Vicomte was back to fidgeting restlessly again. Part of him thought he would never bear to look Yuuri in the eye again.

What he was about to say could possibly embarrass him for the rest of his life, and maybe a couple lives more, should he ever be reincarnated. To say nothing of what he wanted to do at the masquerade ball afterward.

“Yes? Are you . . . yes?” Yuuri asked.

Yuri stared a moment at a blue and silver ensemble hanging over Yuuri's _shogi_ screen. He felt a pit forming in his stomach; Yuuri had already chosen what to wear to the masquerade ball.

“Well,” said Yuri. “I got these from Celestino, and if you do _not_ want me to use these, symbolically or otherwise, tell me no.

“But, in short, I would like to use these to reserve you for this dance. And well, for any dance for the rest of our lives, and for life in general. If, if you will have me.”

And with an increasingly reddening face, Yuri snatched two rings from his back pocket. He was used to yelling at people what to do—leaving the choice open to them was damned intimidating. He hated feeling intimidated, it made him want to lash out and never stop lashing out. He put one in his left and one in his right and stretched them both out for Yuuri to choose.

The Vicomte babbled on. “Don't fret, this doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean. I mean, it can mean whatever you _want_ it to mean. Whether it's a simple, I like you. Or whether it's something a lot more. Let your wishes dictate.”

One was Yuuri’s mother's wedding ring and one was Yuuri’s father's wedding ring. 

Yuuri stared and stared and stared. He looked at Yuri like he needed confirmation that his eyes were not betraying him.

Yuri was two seconds from flinging the rings against the wall and running away, cursing himself for ever thinking that this was a plausible idea.

“You, you mean it,” said Yuuri, his voice hushed, awed, and slightly terrified. 

“Dammit, do you think I would take the trouble to say it, if I didn't really mean it?!” Yuri exploded at him with disbelief.

“Oh, you _do_ mean it!” And Yuuri’s eyes started glistening, partly with tears forming like blessed dew, and partly with unsung joy. Though perhaps it might not go unsung for long.

Yuuri sank down to one knee and said, “Yes. Yes to this dance. Yes to many more dances to come. Yes for life, if you’ll have me.”

“What the hell, Katsuki, I was about to do that and you beat me to it!” Yuri yelled, annoyed that this acceptance was _nothing_ like he plotted out in his head. Yuuri was taking things into his own hands, and that was hard to follow. But then he paused a millisecond to reflect. By God, it _still_ was a _yes_. Which was a damn good improvement over I-hope-he-doesn't-laugh-in-my-face from a moment before.

So Yuri plopped down on one knee, too. Now they were at eye level, as equals. The Vicomte waved the rings just a little under the singer's nose.

“Pick which one to wear on the chain,” he goaded.

“Just pick one?” Yuuri echoed. “That is unduly harsh, it’s like asking me to pick between my parents!”

“What?” Yuri teased. “Are you telling me you want to wear both?”

“Well, yes and no. I say we take turns,” said Yuuri, brown eyes misting over a little as he lost himself in thought. “One day I wear mother’s, one day I wear father’s, one day I wear both. And then for the rest of the week, _you_ wear both.” And he smirked at Yuri in a way entirely too smug for a man who had just been harried about a misplaced dancing card.

Yuri nodded in agreement. Then both of them realized they were, in fact, still kneeling on one knee. They awkwardly helped each other to their feet. Yuuri's shoulder brushed a bundle laid out at the foot of his bed—and Yuri nearly toppled over when a corner of a think blanket peeled back to reveal a bit of black and gold.

“What's this?” Yuuri asked. “Mila left it hear without a word to me earlier.” 

The Vicomte instantly regretted ever asking Minako to put such time and effort into crafting the black and gold uniforms. What the devil had he been thinking? This was worse than the time he left his cat unattended around young girls, and two devious little angels almost took said cat along on their tour of Europe.

“You mentioned you needed something for masquerade the other day,” said Yuri, deciding to simply tell Yuuri what he and Minako had been up planning. Then let Yuuri smile at him for the absolute dolt he was, and then go select something else. This would be the fastest way to get through the embarrassment. 

He pulled back the blanket as if it were a veil, revealing two black uniforms with soldierly gold trim. Atop each uniform perched a mask. “So I wanted to give you a possible option,” Yuri went on. “But it looks like you have something after all, so you don't have to—”

“This is Minako's doing?” Yuuri interrupted shyly. His face lighted as if the sun was rising behind his eyes.

“Yes,” Yuri admitted, caution lowering his tone. “I asked her.”

“Indeed, I do wish to wear it! We should both wear them!” Yuuri declared.

The Vicomte stared, amazed that Yuuri had accepted so quickly.

Yuuri snatched up the black uniform in his size, disappearing behind the _shogi_ screen, his previously chosen outfit forgotten. Yuri took his own uniform in hand and draped it over his shoulder, twirling the mask between his fingers. 

He had finally made up his mind—he would go ahead with his plan in its entirety. Even the ballroom bit. Yuuri was in an even more accommodating mood than he would have hoped. The first two steps had practically taken themselves, what with the rings and the uniforms, in spite of his misgivings. He'd execute step three or he would die trying, then come back from the grave to slap the Opera Ghost.

Maybe Minako and Mila deserved more reliance and less ire than he had given them before. Even if Mila's surprise hugs were annoying.

Yuri half-shouted at Yuuri that he would meet him once the ball had begun, as he had some matters to sort through first. Still behind his screen, Yuuri commended him for only half-shouting, and said he'd meet him outside the grand room with checkered tiles.

* * *

Yuuri stood in the curved hall leading to the grand room, rolling up and down on the balls of his feet. The musicians had struck up a stately tune, and all gathered had been dancing for ten minutes. Stragglers still filtered in from time to time, but there was no sign of a short blonde with a penchant for animal prints. Yuuri watched the twirling skirts and flapping coattails and bobbing masks, and he couldn't bear to stand still.

He would have asked Yuuko to dance, but he didn't see her. Either she was herding her girls to bed, or coaxing Takeshi into formal wear he hadn't worn in months.

Yuuri alternated between adjusting his black mesh mask studded with crystals on one side, and tapping the outline of his father's ring through the fabric of his black uniform.

If the Vicomte didn't show himself soon, Yuuri might just waltz up to Giacometti and ask him for a dance, absurd though that would be. (The only same-gender couples dancing together were girls in want of a male partner for the moment.) Even though he might regret doing so within thirty seconds. Giacometti kept glancing his way, so Yuuri was half-expecting the manager to saunter over anyway.

It was a delight of the senses to watch how everyone had taken the theme of black, white, cream, and gold and run positively amok in their attire . . . but Yuuri wanted to admire while he was dancing.

Even worse, Phichit was uncharacteristically absent. Usually he was at the very center of any party, making memories that no one would forget. (Like the time Phichit had matched not one, not two, not even three, but four couples in one night of dancing. Takeshi and Yuuko had been one of them.)

Minako seemed to be reveling enough for both her and Phichit's sakes, giggling with Celestino and the other mature dancers in a corner, and probably already on her fourth glass of wine. Her silver and purple dress, styled to resemble a formal kimono from their homeland, was still exquisite, shining under the light of the chandelier.

At length, Yuuri looked up, and spotted Yuri with Mila and Yuuko in tow, the three of them dashing toward him. Mila wore a waspy black dress with a neckline that would send the elderly gentlemen into apoplectic fits. Her hair hung in ringlets at her temples, and the rest was pinned up to display her ears and neck, a few curls falling roguishly here and there. Her mask was made of black brocade and ribbon. 

Yuuko wore a delicate slip of a white gown, all fluffy lace that might float away in a draft. She let her hair hang shining but uncurled over her ears, and the rest was held in place at her crown with pins and a white feather. Her mask was a marvel of delicate white beads, a month's worth of work stolen in between herding her daughters here and there.

Yuri looked positively striking in the black uniform with gold trim. His carriage was regal and firm, like a soldier dressed ready for both dance and combat, if not both. And the fit, the way each seam was molded to mimic a second skin without hampering movement, was marvelous. 

Minako had quite outdone herself, Yuuri would have to thank her personally as soon as he saw her next. Yuri's mask was plain black, as if he couldn't be bothered with anything fancier. That was just fine with Yuuri—it only further highlighted the brilliance of the Vicomte's eyes, which seemed more expressive than usual, closer to green than blue. Before Yuuri could pinpoint what was different, his friends were talking.

“I'll have you know, I would have been here _long_ ago,” Yuri ground out, “but Mila needed help with some alterations. I'm never agreeing to help you again, you slowcoach of a hag.”

“What about Yuuko?” Mila asked, eyelashes flicking innocently from within her mask.

“Yuuko can ask me anything short of surrendering my cat,” said Yuri.

“High praise, indeed!” said Yuuri, smiling at him. He was so grateful that Yuri and Yuuko seemed to have gotten close, without Yuri even fully realizing it. Yuri was looking back at him, but Yuuri had a feeling he was admiring Minako's handiwork on _him_ now. 

This marked attention made Yuuri feel a bashful—he almost wished Yuri would put up an unreadable mask again. There was a light, not quite mischief, not quite impatience, not quite promise of wonders in those blue-green eyes. Yuuri could see it now, and it rather captivated him.

“And I declare, you are getting too attached to a married woman,” said Mila, snatching up Yuri's free hand and grinning at Yuuko. “Time for you to take me for a few spins!”

And Yuri was manhandled out to the dance floor, muffling curses through gritted teeth left and right. After he stopped sniping and struggling, he and Mila settled into a graceful rhythm. To Yuuri's delight, the Vicomte turned out to be a _very_ accomplished dancer in his own right. As least as far as the waltz was concerned. Comical though it was with how Mila towered over Yuri, they looked as if they were flying, and their black outfits made them a very proper matching set.

Yuuko's hand brushed his gold-tasseled shoulder lightly, and he turned to look at her happy, sparkling eyes. “Did you give him a few dancing tips?” he asked her. 

She grinned widely and shook her head. “No. That's a flair all his own, Yuuri.”

He grinned back and offered her his hand. “Shall we dance, too?”

In a whirl of tile and light and gossamer skirts, they were waltzing. All Yuuri's worries and fears melted and burned away, like the music was purging his soul of its impurities. Tonight, he would put Victor out of mind. Tonight was for the people who meant the world to him. To the people who _were_ his world, who paved his steps through life with their words and smiles and gestures. 

Yuuko cooed with delight as he led her through complicated steps, at first so fast they would trip of they fell out of synchrony, then so slow they felt as if their limbs were scraping chains along the ground. 

In the slow moments, his eyes strayed to Yuri. He marveled at the poise and pride that adorned his every move, at how skilled he was in keeping pace with Mila. Then Yuuko would tap his shoulder to remind him not to be _too_ obvious. Then he would speed up again, daring her to push herself to her limits.

He was sure he could hear Celestino and Minako laughing and cheering them on over the swelling string instruments.

Then Yuuri got an idea and whispered in Yuuko's ear. With a mischievous smirk, she nodded her head, white feather spearing her upswept locks shuddering with mirth. And with a few dips and spins, Yuuri maneuvered them alongside Yuri and Mila. Then with a flick of his wrist, Yuuri snatched Mila away from the Vicomte and deposited Yuuko in her place. Yuri was stunned, but then he caught Yuuko's smile and made a face at Mila as Yuuri swept her across the dance floor.

Mila laughed and told him that had been a splendid idea. The four of them made time fly almost as fast as their own feet, trading back and forth and bantering all the while. They must have caught the eye of several other dancers, but Yuuri paid them no mind. Not tonight.

Until Jean-Jacques swooped in, laughing, and carried Yuuko away from Yuuri, leaving his _fiancée_ Isabella in her place. Yuuri froze for a split second, then recovered himself just in time to lead Isabella around a drunk couple without tripping. 

Isabella wore maroon, the gathered, cascading layers about her bosom and waist mimicking a rising curtain. It made a fetching illusion, and Yuuri knew she had to have worn this specially for Jean-Jacques' benefit. Her mask was maroon velvet, and her lips were painted to match. She completed the bold look by leaving her hair unbound, a couple strands falling to rest on Yuuri's shoulder.

“Er, good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, feeling a bit bashful.

“Good evening. Can't let you have _all_ the fun, now can we?” she asked merrily, crystal earrings jingling as she bobbed her head towards Jean-Jacques' retreating back. He seemed determined to make the _entire dance floor_ start trading partners. No one else seemed up for the game, couples beginning to give him a wide berth wherever he appeared. Yuuko caught Yuuri's glance and beamed at him.

Isabella squeezed Yuuri's hand to bring his focus back on her. “But do enjoy yourself tonight, Yuuri. We all need respites, and know that we're all supporting you. If you need anything — anything at all — you can count on my man, and on me.”

Yuuri almost felt like tearing up. Isabella had barely interacted with him at all prior to this dance. He got an occasional smile with an imperious glint, and that was all.

“Thank you, Isabella.”

“Certainly, Yuuri. Now, please, spin me as fast as you possibly can. I can't ask Jean-Jacques to do so—he doesn't know his own strength sometimes.”

Yuuri laughed. “And I do?”

Isabella turned her head slightly away, as if glancing at him sidelong from behind her mask would maximize the coy effect. To Yuuri's surprise, he realized that it did. “I think you do _now_.”

After spinning until they were both breathless, Yuuri looked around the room for Yuri, a trifle worried that he might appear and smack Jean-Jacques for his antics. But to his surprise, he saw neither Yuri nor even Yuuko anywhere, not even at the neck of the hall beyond. Jean-Jacques was dancing with Mila now. Yuuri smiled, watching her soundly frustrating all his attempts to trade her off for another partner. Isabella followed his gaze and laughed.

“Ah, what are we to do with them?” she mused, probably not even realizing she was speaking aloud.

Yuuri scanned the room for Phichit for what felt like the twentieth time that night. Again, his friend was conspicuously absent. Where were his friends running off to hide? Perhaps Phichit has finally matched _himself_ off to someone and was otherwise engaged, and Yuuko and Yuri had discovered them and were giving him a proper heckling.

After a few moments, Jean-Jacques returned to retrieve Isabella, and Mila finally surrendered Jean-Jacques' arms. She hugged Yuuri before moving into waltzing position and winked at him as he twirled her away. 

“Mila, I'm worried about Phichit. Did he say anything about feeling ill, perhaps?” Yuuri asked.

“He'll turn up,” said Mila. “Speaking of turning up, where's the Vicomte? Have you spotted him yet?”

Yuuri felt himself stiffen reflexively, standing a little taller and studying Mila's face. She was also giving him a sidelong coy glance through the mask, only hers was more mischievous than Isabella's. It was a look that always spelled trouble, trouble which took at least a week to sort out. What had possessed all the women he knew today?

“Mila, what are you playing at now?” he asked.

“Oh, dearest Yuuri, it's not _me_ you should be wondering about,” said Mila, reaching up to tuck a stray lock back behind her ear, then down to tug at her neckline.

Yuuri wouldn't deign to ask whom she meant. Mila could be subtle when she tried _very_ hard—except when she was tickled pink. And right now, her cheeks were growing redder and redder with contained excitement.

Yuuri felt a rising feeling of impending doom. He racked his brain for plausible scenarios. Was Mila going to challenge him to a dancing contest? Was she going to ask the musicians to play a bawdy drinking song unfit for polite society? Was she going to halt the waltz and start an impromptu scene from the play they never finished after—

Yuuri felt his anxiety gripping his heart in his chest, and had to pretend he wasn't in the ballroom anymore, just so he could remember to breathe. All this revelry and celebration didn't matter, not really. A temporary trick of distraction, at most. Not with Victor determined to have his way, damning all consequences and collateral damage.

_Victor, Victor, Victor. Why did you let me down? Why are you someone I can never put faith in again? I used to look forward to how you would surprise and inspire me next. Now, I can't even picture your face without seeing a dead man instead. Now I dread what you have in store for me. I don't want any more surprises._

He closed his eyes, shook his head slightly to dispel the morbid thoughts, then opened them to look to Mila, ready to apologize if he had worried her. She was staring with rapt attention across the room.

Yuuri tried to follow her gaze, but only caught a glimpse of a pink gown in the corner of his eye, before the crowd obscured the short figure from view. Mila looked back at him, clicked her tongue in annoyance, and tugged on his arm to demand he lead them closer to the other side of the room. Yuuri threw up his hands in defeat and obliged—but not before exacting punishment in a few dizzying spins.

Mila laughed and pounded on his shoulder. “Silly boy, slow down or you'll miss it!”

Yuuri spun her a couple more times for good measure, then slowed but continued their trek across room. “I won't miss it if you just tell me,” he said, smiling. Mila didn't answer, simple dipped her fingers beneath his collar and plucked out the chain with the ring. She let it fall over the black of his uniform and patted it in approval. Then she jerked her head sideways.

Yuuri looked to the side, and to his shock and relief, he saw Phichit elegantly weaving his way toward them. Phichit wore dark red with lavish gold filigree and a gold sash and mask to match, easily the most striking man in the room. Yuuri grinned to himself. Phichit was sweeping his dancing partner around at a pace scarce fit to breathe. The pink-swathed blonde on Phichit's arm looking rather miffed at his antics.

Yuuri was about to joke to Mila that Phichit's dancing partner had a scowl like Yuri. And then he looked more closely. The blonde _was_ Yuri. Yuri in a voluminous pink confection of a gown, layers of white lace framing the shoulders, a white and salmon rose at the hip and on the gathers of pink at the back of the skirt. Yuri with all his hair swept up like Yuuko's hair, braids adding definition on either side. Yuri with a silver mask overlaid with tendrils of darker chrome.

Yuuri only knew him by the scowl and the fierce, determined blue-green eyes. 

With a start, he realized Phichit had ceremoniously thrown the blonde at him, Mila skillfully traipsing out of the way and catching Phichit's hand.

He heard Yuri muttering a curse as he hastily caught his balance, just before he would have crashed into Yuuri's torso. Yuuri took the Vicomte's white-gloved fingers and led them back into the waltz without thinking, hyper aware of how many people had stared at the prospect of a couple tumbling in a tangle of limbs and frills.

“Yuri, what on earth?” he asked.

“Don't. Don't say anything,” the Vicomte hissed, gripping Yuuri's hand and shoulder like he wanted to squeeze the life out of him. “I wanted to surprise you. I know you like dancing, I thought I'd dance with you without drawing attention, and so . . . here I am. Better enjoy it now, I am never wearing this damned contraption again.”

“Without drawing attention? I think you could hide three people under that skirt alone,” Yuuri observed, taking care to hold Yuri out at the right arm's length so neither of them tripped over the frothy hem. “Or maybe trip half the ballroom.” His train of thought promptly derailed upon spotting his mother's ring hanging on a chain over the high lace neckline.

Yuri growled, not even noticing that Yuuri was subtly increasing their pace's speed. “Without drawing attention to _us_ , I meant. Nobody would imagine me wearing this. I feel I could _smother_ three people with it. Or at least, Phichit and Mila and Yuuko. Your friend Phichit is a handful, Yuuri. He seems to think it's his right to cross examine me, as if I'm about to enter a monastery or something.”

Yuuri shrugged. Phichit always did as he pleased, and then smiled at you so sweetly, you couldn't really fault him for anything. In the corner of his eye, he spotted Jean-Jacques, smirking at him deviously and spinning Yuuko toward them.

Once Jean-Jacques had the two couples dancing side-by-side, he tried to trade off partners, saying to the blonde in pink, “Shall we dance, my lady?” Yuuri was relieved that Jean-Jacques seemed to have no idea who the blonde actually was.

But Yuuko refused to let go of Jean-Jacques' hand, coolly side-stepping Jean-Jacques' attempts to slip away. And Yuri lifted his nose in the air and paid the man no mind. Which Yuuri thought was just as well. If Yuri opened his mouth, he would yell, Jean-Jacques would recognize his voice, and then their little jig would be up.

Yuuri smiled at Jean-Jacques and spun away, while Yuri muttered, “He's lucky this damned hoop skirt is too wide, or I'd have ground his toes under my heel.”

Their mutual friends left them alone after that, and Yuuri teased the increasingly irascible Yuri to his heart's content. Yuuri changed directions, steps, and tempo to challenge his partner, and Yuri matched him step for step, even while wearing unfamiliar clothes. Yuuri looked at him with eyebrows raised, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Finally Yuri couldn't stand the scrutiny and blurted out, “You remember how we used to dance along the beach sometimes? Well, more like racing, but still, you remember?”

Yuuri nodded. One of many fond memories. The Vicomte went on, “Well, I didn't want to stop when I went back to my grandpa's house. He tried to find me French dance instructors, but I didn't like any of them. I think they reminded me of my deceased French granny—she was the Vicomtess, so that's where my family gets their title.”

Yuuri nodded again, studiously ignoring the sight of Phichit and Mila circling past and blowing kisses at them, like some sort of wine-soaked benediction. Clearly both of them were quickly following in Minako's footsteps.

“Then my grandpa's friend Yakov recommended a lady known as Madame Lilia, Russian like us. I had no choice but to listen to her, she was like a demon in a woman's form. Now, she's almost like a mother. Maybe someday I'll take you to meet her.”

Yuuri ignored his mischievous friends to focus on the Vicomte's face behind the silver mask. “I should like that very much. This was a nice surprise, Yuri. Thank you. I don't know many who would brave a hoop skirt and corset for me.”

Yuri's answering smirk was a trifle devious, like he still had something in store. “If you could do it, I could.”

“When did this become a competition, Yuri?”

Yuri stood on tiptoes, managing to get close to Yuuri's ear despite the layers of fluffy fabric sweeping about their ankles. “It will _always_ be a competition, you fool. Get used to it.”

This seemed to Yuuri to be Plisetsky-speak for _kiss me, you fool_ , so Yuuri simply dabbed his pursed lips against his partner's forehead, before stepping back again. At least he knew boredom would never reign with Yuri Plisetsky present.

Yuri promptly turned almost the same shade of red as Phichit's peerless outfit. He spluttered, but found no words.

They danced in silence after that, Yuuri thinking that the combination of warm lights, lilting music, and Yuri's gloves against his fingertips would lull him into a walking slumber. He felt contented, an alien sensation to anyone who struggled with numerous worries at any given moment.

The music squeaked to an abrupt end as a voice rose and echoed throughout the room, spilling from the top of the gilded stairs. 

“Good evening. I trust you are all enjoying your gala?”

 _No. Victor, no!_ Yuuri's blood froze in his veins, his hands locking down on Yuri's left hand and waist like death himself was at their shoulder. Reluctantly, he stilled as every living thing around him did, and cast his eyes upwards, cursing their luck that he and Yuri were standing just a few paces from where stairs melted into checkered tile.

A man with long silver hand bound behind his back strode down from the top step. He was clothed in striking scarlet velvet, his cape sweeping behind him and black knee-high boots clipping the steps neatly as he moved, as if to a slow, ominous drumbeat only he could hear. His mask covered all of his face from nose upward, a mockery of a distorted skull. The Opera Ghost wanted all to know he was deeply offended, and look upon his garb of bone and blood, and know they needed to show penitence.

_Why so silent, good messieurs?_  
_Did you think that I had left you for good?_  
_Have you missed me, good messieurs?_  
_I have written you an opera!_  
_Here I bring the finished score,_  
_Don Juan triumphant!_

And with a flourish, Victor cast a leather-bound bundle of papers a few steps down from where he stood. He drew a sword, fashioned so that the blade protruded from the smile of a hellish skull forming the guard and handle. He caressed the flat of the blade with his leather-gloved fingers like it was an old friend. But he was not done.

“You need to get out of here, _now_ ,” Yuri hissed in his ear. Yuuri nodded in agreement, but he could not, would not take his eyes of Victor. And Victor's eyes kept circling back to him, as he slowly prowled down, down, down the staircase like waiting panther. And Yuuri knew he couldn't leave. Not unless he wanted to call attention to Yuri, who would certainly refuse to let him go alone.

_Fondest greetings to you all._  
_A few instructions just before rehearsal starts._

And Victor began listing whom he wished to play whom in his play, but not before soundly insulting Jean-Jacques' acting and his _fiancée_ 's dancing.

“And as for our star, Master Yuuri Katsuki,” said the Opera Ghost, as he touched down on the last step.

Yuuri's vision swam red, and his hearing seemed to fail him as well. He knew Victor's lips were moving in time with his legs as he stalked toward him, but couldn't focus on any of the words. All he knew was Victor was approaching, Yuri was radiating aggression, and he had to keep them apart. 

He stepped forward, even though his knees felt weak and unreliable, hoping at least that his shoulder would block the ring on the chain around Yuri's neck from view. Then Victor might just cross off the blonde in pink as a passing acquaintance. He caught the last words of Victor's spiel.

“If pride will let him return to me, his teacher, his teacher,” said Victor softly, as he came to stand before him, close enough to embrace him. “Yuuri.” The singer wanted to close his eyes. Up close, the embroidery on Victor's red jacket shone a piercing gold, and his blue eyes were fathomless and serene. But he couldn't tear his gaze away. 

“Yuuri,” Victor breathed again, so low not even Yuri behind him could hear. And Yuuri could not believe he had so easily forgotten how seductive Victor's voice was, when he put his all into getting Yuuri's attention. “Please come back to me. Would you say this is madness? Am I mad for loving you? Let me tell you my side of the story, you don't even know everything yet. Do you doubt that I have your best interests at heart? Do you think anyone knows how to calm your fears better than I?” Appealing to Yuuri's empathy, Yuuri's sense of fair play . . . Yuuri's loyalty. 

And Yuuri's demons.

Anger burned within him. Yuuri felt as if he were an onlooker, and not the person to whom Victor was speaking. It gave him a sense of grounding, of clarity. _How dare he_ , Yuuri thought. _How dare he talk like I'm lost without him!_

“Well,” and Yuuri hated how his voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat to steady it and went on, “you do know how to use my fears better than anyone else.”

No longer were the blue eyes serene. The light in them died, and they closed like curtains after an ending act. Yuuri heard Victor gritting his teeth. Or maybe that was Yuri behind him, it was difficult to say.

Victor opened his eyes again to focus on Yuuri's father's ring, resting a couple inches beneath the hollow between his collarbones. He snatched it up, yanking and breaking the chain with far more force than necessary. Yuuri stepped back in surprise, feeling his back collide with Yuri's hands and shoulders.

“Your chains are still mine! You belong to me, Yuuri.” The warning in Victor's voice was unmistakable. The blue eyes were burning with an anger similar to his own now. Victor's pride, Victor's will, Victor's desire were all very vexed with Yuuri at the moment. “Send your lover away, while you still can. I will not be kept waiting, or obliged to share.”

Yuuri could practically feel the Vicomte about to storm past him, and his hand moved without thinking to tap at Yuri's waist in warning.

Victor flicked his cape and spun about, sprinting up the stairs to the lowest landing, then turning and bowing to all gathered around. His eyes met Yuuri's last. The floor gave way beneath him, as if he were a burden too great to support, and he disappeared.

Yuuri knew the Vicomte was going to make a beeline for the hole left in Victor's place, even before Yuri did. He whirled around, ready to put a hand over Yuri's mouth to keep him from shouting his lungs out. 

“Please, Yuri, no,” he said.

Blue-green eyes of a solider stared him down. “I'm going after him,” Yuri grit out. “Don't try to stop me.”

“Are you always going to be this demanding?” Yuuri asked.

“ _Yes_.”

And so that was how Yuuri found himself jumping down a hole, hand in hand with Yuri Plisetsky in a pink ballgown, with Yuri biting his lip hard to keep from screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, a dollop of humor to close this, before we get really intense (Point of No Return) and angsty (Dungeon of Black Despair). Are you ready for this? I'm gonna cry, you're gonna cry, it'll be a mess. I plan on finishing this at 8 chapters, maybe add an epilogue, if needed. Very last chapter will be a poll on what story you want me to focus on next.
> 
> I can't believe I made a stupid _300_ reference, somebody take my laptop and all pens and pencils away from me. Or just say I'm not allowed to write at 2 am.
> 
> *raises hand* Who else read _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ when they were 14-15 and was kinda traumatized for life? It is NOTHING like the Disney movie I grew up on.
> 
> Takeshi and Yuuri talking earnestly with each other gives me life. I LOVED the scene in the show where they talked about the Eros routine. Even though Takeshi still teased Yuuri, he had come a long way, from jealous (ha! so jealous!) bully to honest, caring friend.
> 
> Using family heirlooms as engagement rings is romantic, right? I hope it is.
> 
> Also, holy crap, why did I forget to explain why Yuri (obviously Russian) has the title of Vicomte (obvious French) until now? *facepalm* Blame the fangirling.
> 
> Yuuri and Yuri dancing (with Yuri griping) is inspired by the cover for the [Vol. 2 Blu-ray](http://www.animenewsnetwork.com/thumbnails/hotlink-max400x400/cms/news/111713/yoi_02.jpg). I'm afraid the fluffy pink dress was OOC for poor Yuri. My muse refused to listen, and next chapter will kinda give more context, but still ultimately, OOC. Dresses for everyone! (Victor, you're next. You have been warned.)
> 
> Yuuri and Yuri trading dance partners cracks me up so much. I want Mila and Yuuko to meet in person if/when we're blessed with Season 2, and swap embarrassing stories about their favorite skater boys. Who's with me?
> 
> Also, I really, really, REALLY want to see Yuuri and Yuri pair skating in Season 2. Much as I loved Victuuri pair skating, let's be honest—with Yuri's light frame and Yuuri's stamina (heh), they would be able to do a lot more fancy stuff. Also hoping for Otabek and Yuri challenging Victuuri to a pair skating contest, because why not? This series is all about go big or go home, right?


	7. Crimson and Gold and Black at the Point of No Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minako tells all she knows about the Opera Ghost. Yuuri and Yuri confront Victor at the Katsuki grave site. Yuuri throws himself body, heart, mind, and soul into his role as the leading lady to Don Juan -- but it's not quite the role Victor intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the chapter inspired by [Christine's Point of No Return outfit](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/90/fa/91/90fa91827dcfeee5abfac6a4fb1299e7.jpg). Fair warning, THIS GETS FRIGGIN' DARK. We all love our canon Vitya, but this is not him. Ending of this story will be happy, but first, ALL THE ANGST.
> 
> This is a long and choppy and messy chapter (28 pages in my word processor). I nearly cried writing this. Some scenes I had to write piecemeal, days apart. Really, really hoping the tension is steamy enough here. I've given it all the (nonexistent) eros I've got! Still not satisfied at all, but y'all have been patient, so here goes. No more waiting.
> 
> Mega thanks to everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and comments. 
> 
> Still unbeta'd. And I still own nothing but my excess of purple prose. Constructive criticism is welcome.

The swishing pink skirt about Yuri's ankles tore against the edge of the hole in the floor, as Yuri Plisetsky and Yuuri Katsuki sailed downward. Yuri ignored it, unclenching his teeth and focusing on landing on his feet. The drop was thankfully short, and both of them landed upright, with no stumbling or twisting of ankles. Yuri's mask clattered to the floor at the impact. Faceted mirrors surrounded them on all sides, warping their perception. 

Yuri spotted a glimpse of silver hair and red coat, and biting his lip again for silence, he hiked up the skirt and petticoat and charged forward. He would get back Yuuri's father's ring, and hog-tie the Opera Ghost and sit on him to keep him still. Even if he had to unravel half of Minako's carefully-sewn dress to do so.

The vision vanished, and Yuri had to stop short to prevent himself from running straight into glass. He glanced to Yuuri, standing several feet behind him, and Yuuri slumped.

“He's gone.”

“Already?” Yuri growled low, clenched white-gloved fists. “That's not like him. This isn't good, not at all.”

Yuuri suppressed a shudder and nodded, and Yuri tramped over to him in a foul mood.

He blinked, and then saw Minako, candle in hand, standing beside Yuuri's other shoulder. Yuri jumped, and the singer had to clamp his hand over Yuri's mouth to keep him from shouting.

“Quick, follow me,” said Minako, walking to a section of glass. She tapped along one side of the mirror, coaxing it to swing open to reveal a dark passage.

“So that's how he got away,” said Yuuri, removing his hand from Yuri's mouth.

They followed her without another word, down dingy, damp stone that wound its way back to a familiar hallway by the kitchen. At the threshold leading into the hall, Yuri planted his feet.

“We're not budging,” said Yuri. “Not until you tell us everything you know about the Ghost of the Ice.” 

Yuuri leaned nervously against the molding and nodded.

Minako sighed, absently eying the damage wreaked to one side of Yuri's pink ballgown. “Very well. Perhaps you must know, for your own safety.” She looked from one resolute face to the other. “But _I_ won't say anything until we have all trusted parties in my sewing room.”

She flitted away to gather people together. Yuri, anxious to change before someone recognized him, accepted and donned Yuuri's mask, in place of the one he forgot in the circle of mirrors. Yuri rushed to the sewing room, and Yuuri trailed thoughtfully in his wake.

As they waited for Minako's return, Yuri changed behind one of several _shogi_ screen doors, stuffing the shredded down away in a corner, then throwing on plain brown breeches and a cream shirt, which had been lying nearby. They fit him very ill, the pants a mite tight and the shirt a mite loose. He hoped nobody would care. _The indignities we all suffer while avoiding nudity_ , he mused.

“I have trouble recognizing you, without animal print somewhere on your person,” said Yuuri, as he stepped out from behind the _shogi_ screen. The Vicomte guessed he was trying to distract himself from whatever thoughts were attacking his nerves.

“Your ideal moment to crack that joke was at the _beginning_ of the ball,” Yuri sulked at him. He would not get over how easily Victor had slipped away for a while yet.

Yuuri offered no further jests. Yuri knew he had to distract him, even though the Yuri was at a loss for diverting conversation. All he wanted to do was hiss and spit and scream.

“You're not going to change out of your costume, Yuuri?” he asked, going for the first mundane subject to come to mind. Like discussing the weather at parties.

Yuuri shook his head. He turned those expressive, deep-pooled brown eyes to Yuri. “I think I'll handle this better if I stay dressed, as if I'm playing a role.”

Yuri wanted to wince when he saw Yuuri absently pawing at the spot on his uniform where the ring and chain had rested.

Minako returned with Phichit, Mila, and Yuuko in tow. In a few moments, Celestino appeared, saying he could only stay briefly. Yuuri steepled his fingers and looked questioningly at Minako, unable to wait much longer.

Minako paced the room and spoke in hushed tones, as everyone gathered close around her, pulling up chairs or ottomans to perch upon, or just sitting on piles of fabric on the floor rugs.

“Fourteen years ago, on a road leading into Paris,” said Minako, “Yakov and his coachman were waylaid by two bandits. The coachman was injured by a club. Before the men could close in with their knives, another young man with strange, angular blades joined the scuffle. He screamed and slashed them a couple times, driving them away running and bleeding and cursing. Then his blades vanished, and he helped Yakov bind the coachman's hurt shoulder. 

“The young man was but nineteen years old, though his height made him appear older. He was very disfigured on one side of his face, and very self-conscious. The hooded cloak he wore had fallen away in the scuffle. Yakov asked the young man how he could thank him, and the man asked for steady work.

“So Yakov had him drive in the coachman's place, then allowed him to make the Ice Castle Opera House his new home. The young man hid in the crannies and shadows, and Yakov paid him to guard and maintain the opera house while the rest of us slept. Over the years, the young man built upon some of the passageways already in place, until he had a fathomless network beneath our very feet. 

“You should never go there, by the way, and if you do, _keep your hand at the level of your eyes_. Unless you want your neck stretched.

“He made himself indispensable to Yakov by rooting out anyone trying to get staff addicted to opiates. He also left gifts of alcohol for anyone who would leave him homemade sweets in return. I made him clothes, and he gave me bottles upon bottles of my favorite brandy.

“Then came the day he began hiding important documents and demanding ransom for them. Yakov was furious, but powerless. Soon he was paying the Opera Ghost a salary for guaranteed smooth running of affairs. You all know what follows.

“He is a genius, and I used to think him a benign one. I'm sorry I was mistaken.”

“Well, clearly genius has turned to madness,” said Yuri. “Stupid old man should've been content with the salary I was willing to pay.”

“Genius never is content nor satisfied,” said Yuuri, absently.

“So,” said Mila, “does this mean we have no choice but to put on his play, this Don Juan masquerade? No one's going to bother placing bets on what will happen. We all know what his desired result must be.”

“Well, maybe we _could_ put on the play,” said Phichit, eying with curiosity the leather-bound papers under Celestino's arm. Mila sidled up to Celestino and held out her palms in supplication. To her surprise, Celestino surrendered the bundle without further wheedling. Mila sat down, and while cradling the bundle on her thighs, she read aloud excerpts from each act. Phichit leaned over her shoulder and interjected alternating lines to help distinguish the characters.

When they began the climax of the third act, Yuuri let out a soft, strangled cry. Yuri and the others jerked their eyes up to look at him. Yuuri was rocking slightly, forward and back and forward again, hands clenched at his temples in acute distress.

It was plain that the Opera Ghost saw himself as the Don Juan to Yuuri's leading lady.

Celestino heard voices calling for him outside in the hall. “Tell me what course of action you decide upon,” he said to Minako, then dashed out of the room, forgetting to close the door behind him in his haste.

“I can't do this. I'm sorry, I just can't!” And Yuuri fled the room through the open door.

Yuri mopped his sweating brow with the back of his hand, since he had no handkerchief. “Damn that monster!” he spat. “He's backed us into a corner.”

“Should we be concerned that he cast Phichit as Don Juan?” Yuuko asked, looking back and forth between Yuri and Phichit. “He can't mean well by that.”

“Definitely,” said Minako. “He knows Phichit would not want to stray a moment from Yuuri's side, but every solo scene the leading man or leading lady has will frustrate that.”

No one mentioned the suspicion that the Opera Ghost might visit the set himself in Don Juan's garb. But Yuri knew they were all thinking about it.

Phichit's eyes hardened with determination, a surprising sight, given his usual cheery nature. “I'll stay near Yuuri at all times, anyway. I have an idea.”

Yuri nodded. “And I'll stand by the stage itself.” He was not going to sit in a box meant for the audience, just to wrestle the crowd to get to the stage again.

“Should we make any changes to the play?” Mila asked. “We shouldn't make Yuuri do this if he doesn't want to . . . but he might agree if he's allowed to take liberties with this role.”

Yuri bit his lip. “I don't like this at all. Damn geezer of a ghost has too much time and crazy imagination to come up with this drivel. But he'll throw a tantrum if we don't do exactly as he says.”

Minako took a flask out of a pouch at her waist, sighing. “He's right,” she said, taking a delicate swig. “Change so much as one line, and the game will be up. We just need to make sure Yuuri knows we are here for him.”

Yuuko nodded her agreement. “Until he calms enough to come around.”

“He knows this sadistic fool better than even _you_ do,” Yuri added, turning to look at Minako.

Minako nodded as well. “I think he's upset because he knows he will have to do this, if our opera house is to endure. And that's a tremendous amount of pressure.”

Again, they all shared the same unnamed thought: Yuuri's nerves were bad enough during run-of-the-mill performances. To have so much riding upon his performance, and a performance so . . . compromising.

“Give him a few moments to himself, before you go to him,” said Phichit to Yuri. “I think he won't want anybody to see him for a few minutes. The first moments of these moods are when he doesn't want eyes on him.”

Yuri nodded, then started scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper with a pencil from his pocket. Then he folded it and scrawled across the front.

Phichit looked startled when Yuri pressed a paper into his hand. “Please make sure this gets to the postman,” he said. Phichit looked at him with questioning eyes, but Yuri's lips stayed firmly shut.

* * *

Yuri's first guess in his quest to find Yuuri was the shrine, where Yuuri was wont to light candles and burn incense in remembrance and reverence to his deceased parents. It wasn't in perfect accordance with true Japanese custom, but it was as good as Yuuri could do with what the opera house had on hand.

Yuuri was kneeling quietly before the shrine, head bowed and cradled in his hands. To the Vicomte, he looked as if he were trying to keep his worries from seeping out and tainting everything around him black. As Yuri looked on quietly for a few moments, Yuuri's erratic breathing grew quieter, steadier. Then he looked up to meet Yuri's eyes, expression wooden, hollow, like a discarded husk.

“You don't have to convince me,” he said. “I cannot imagine going through this . . . but I will anyway.”

Yuri clucked his tongue. “I'm glad you decided for yourself. I didn't want to yell and goad your feisty side.”

Yuuri nodded blankly, eyes skirting down to study the floor again. “I don't think that would have worked. I'll need to dress for the part, not just in body, but also in mind.” He slowly rose to his feet and stretched, eyes still on the floor, as if Yuri's intent gaze was too much to bear just then. “Are you sure _you_ are ready for this? I am worried enough for my own sake. I know I can't forbid you to follow, if Victor tries to coerce me to go down to his hiding place,” he continued, feet shuffling. “But if he does, please, don't be reckless. Promise me.”

“Then look at me.”

Yuuri looked up, brown eyes twinkling wryly at Yuri. The Vicomte was surprised, having expected Yuuri to be even more shy and skittish than usual. Yuuri was already preparing himself, it seemed.

“I promise to keep my wits,” said Yuri, voice firm as his stance. “But I can't promise I won't think on my feet if I must. Victor waits for no one. But neither does he realize our full potential.”

“What about the scene?” Yuuri prompted.

“What scene?”

Yuuri sent him a withering glare. “The scene with Don Juan bringing his game of seduction to its final move. Neither you nor I will be happy with that scene, no matter what Victor does. You must be ready for him to do something outrageous. This is Victor.”

Yuri snorted. “I was ready from the moment Phichit and Mila gave up reading that scene.”

“No,” said Yuuri, and he stepped forward with an energy Yuri was not anticipating. “I mean _really_ ready, poised to watch anything without reaction. Neither flinch nor snort nor shout. You'll be right there by the stage. No matter what, you must not interfere until I give the signal. Victor must be fully convinced. I will wring my heart to play that game, and you will need to stay still and silent to sell the act.”

“Very well, Yuuri. I will trust you.”

Yuuri managed to beam at him a little, in spite of the worry creasing his brows. “As I will trust you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Yuri. I know trust is hard for you, too. Now let's go back, I have something I need to share with the others.”

Mila was aflutter with curiosity when Yuuri announced that he had an idea. Yuuri explained he was coming up with signals in case something went awry during his performance in the final act. Or in case Yuuri lost his nerve. After a few suggestions from Celestino and Phichit, they all agreed on the signals, and memorized and practiced them. 

Plucking at the eyebrows meant Phichit as Don Juan was in danger, and needed to find himself a safe group or crowd. Reaching down to tug at a boot, or tap a skirt at the calf, meant everyone must take caution, but hold steady. Repeated tapping against the jugular meant Yuuri was on the brink of a panic attack and needed interference. 

And pantomiming fastening a belt round the hips meant Yuuri had Victor where he wanted him. Then it would be time to spring the trap, and have Yuri, Celestino, Popovich, Giacometti, and Giacometti's friend storm the stage, with extra hired muscle for support.

* * *

Yuuri tread silently past Yuri's form sleeping by the round window. He prayed the hour was early enough that he could leave and return before Yuri woke. A note perched on the windowsill, just in case.

He knew what he was about to do was reckless and ill-advised . . . but his nerves were fraught. Never mind his assurances to everyone that he _would_ see their plan through to its completion. If their plans went awry at the first and (and hopefully last) performance of _Don Juan_ , this gray pre-dawn could be his last chance to pay his graveside respects to his parents.

He considered donning a dress to make it more difficult to recognize him, but decided against it. He'd performed female roles often enough that he was just as easily recognizable in a frock as in trousers. In the end, he opted for drab, faded black pants, shirt, and vest, lying handy nearby amidst the costume storage littering the hall. He covered the ensemble with a voluminous, inky black cloak and pulled up the hood.

As he had begged, a stable hand waited with a horse hitched to a simple cart by the door to the stable. He, too, wore a nondescript black cloak with the hood up.

“Thank you,” said Yuuri, depositing coins into the outstretched, gloved hand. “My parents' grave, if you please. Quickly.”

The stable hand in the cloak bowed in acknowledgment. Yuuri was glad for the silence. He suspected the man kept his mouth shut only to avoid yawning in his face. But nevertheless, silence was a blessing.

* * *

Yuri heard hoofs clattering against cobblestones. He could see himself watching Yuuri take the reins as they bumped merrily in his carriage down the streets of Paris. He could hear his horse whinny in approval.

Then he opened his eyes and stretched upright, nearly toppling off the ledge under the round window. Realizing he had just awoken from a dream, his steadied himself with both hands. His head swiveled as he blinked, bleary-eyed, looking out the window to find the source of the hoofbeats.

He was just able to make out the shapes of a horse and a cart, with one driver and one passenger, as they melted away into the dark fog of early morning. He knew at once who it must be. He wondered if could Yuuri actually be fleeing.

 _No_ , he thought. _He is terrified, but he wouldn't just_ leave. _Is he going to fetch something? To clear his mind? Ah!_

And Yuri remembered how wistful Yuuri had looked while burning candles at the shrine. How he had said it wasn't the same as burning incense at the actual grave site. To confirm his suspicions, he spied a note on the window ledge, scrawled in charcoal in Yuuri's handwriting. _Will be back from cemetery shortly._

With a muffled curse, the Vicomte danced around Phichit's stock-still body in a pile of blankets on the floor. He snatched up the sword he had hidden in a corner. He hoped the training his friend in the army had given him would prove sufficient. It was all well and good to have the eyes of a soldier, but Yuri would need a sight more than that if Victor was awake and about. He yanked on his boots and knotted them feverishly.

Yuri practically flew down to the stables, forgetting his beloved striped tiger vest and his cravat and his coat. In his haste, he didn't even bother lacing up his shirt. The chill didn't matter to him right now, he was scared and angry. He just wanted to make sure Yuuri could pay his respects in peace—and then yell at Yuuri when they got back safely.

Behind the stable door he found the cheeky stable boy, snoring on a patch of hay. A chloroform-soaked handkerchief lay discarded a few feet away. Of course the handkerchief bore the initials O. G. in silver thread. The hubris of the man, leaving it like a goddamn calling card.

Yuri bit his lip, then tugged the slumbering boy further inside the stable. He bundled more hay around the boy and threw a coarse blanket over him for warmth. He was glad Victor hadn't killed the child—but it was too cold for this nonsense, the boy could have caught pneumonia.

He led out the horse which looked the most awake and wrangled her into a bit and bridle. Then he scrambled on bareback (it took three tries, curse his legs that never lengthened quite as much as he had wished) and galloped after the carriage. He prayed he would not lose the trail—he wasn't sure where this cemetery was. And Yuri wasn't normally a prayerful man.

* * *

The carriage ride to the cemetery was swift, or perhaps Yuuri's inner turmoil made it seem so. Yuuri thought of how Victor had been at some times like an elder brother, and others like a father, for most of his years at the Ice Castle Opera.

Until the start of his twenty-second year, when Victor's behavior changed. Had it been gradual? Had it been abrupt? To that hour, Yuuri knew not. All he knew was that Victor had always been fond—and then one day Yuuri realized that fondness was expressed in flirtation all morning.

* * *

Victor stole glances at Yuuri, sitting pensive in the carriage behind him, as often as he dared. Yuuri seemed completely oblivious. Thankfully, Yuuri had insisted that the stable boy wear a huge cloak, too, or else Victor may have had difficulty concealing himself.

He was so tempted to guide the carriage another way. To stop at a scenic (as scenic as you could get at this godless hour) spot, and reveal that yes, Yuuri, it was he, Victor. And then allay all his beloved's fears and worries, one way or another. Victor wasn't particular how. All that mattered was his restoration in Yuuri's graces. 

He wanted those pensive brown eyes to stop looking at him like Victor was some apparition from a nightmare. He wanted to be Yuuri's best and brightest dreams made flesh.

But he worried that speaking to Yuuri now might mar the perfection of his plan for the Don Juan performance. And whatever Victor's wishes, he knew Yuuri longed to pay his respects to his parents' shared grave. Yuuri had often told him stories of their dedication and tenderness. They sounded like the most wonderful people to ever live—after himself and Yuuri, of course.

The dingy open gate of the cemetery loomed closer and closer, like the open maw of a dead beast. When they arrived, Victor slowed the horse and stopped the cart, so it lined up with one edge of the gate.

Yuuri climbed mechanically out of the carriage, quietly thanking him and asking for ten minutes' wait. Victor nodded. Yuuri stepped with a heavy tread through the gate, headed for the center of the graveyard.

Victor waited for all of three minutes, before he scoffed to himself and jumped down from the cart. He knotted the horses' reins to one of the spokes of the fence.

Waiting was for other people, not Victor. No one, not even darling Yuuri, made him wait for long.

* * *

Trudging through the snow on this untold visit to his parents' grave, Yuuri felt no different than the first time he walked along behind their French casket at the funeral. He felt lost and alone, and he knew not how he was going to survive till tomorrow.

 _What am I to_ do? _How am I to think?_

He started to sing.

 _You were once my sole companions._  
_You were all that mattered._  
_You were once a friend and father,_  
_Then my world was shattered._

Once he reached the grave, he paused his singing to lay out and light incense, and kneel with his hands on his knees. A thick wisp of smoke curled and shivered in the chill air.

To his amazement, from behind the ornate headstone, a familiar voice wafted over to him.

 _Wandering child, so lost, so helpless,_  
_Yearning for my guidance._

Yuuri froze. He knew full well whose voice was singing. He knew not why Victor was following him here. Victor could not fully understand what his parents meant to him—what could the dead mean to a killer like Victor? Victor didn't mourn Buquet.

 _Lost I may be_ , Yuuri thought, _but helpless? Certainly not._ The fears twisting in his insides told him otherwise, whispering how Yuuri might as well be frozen in place. He tried his best to push them aside, let them waft away from him like the smoke from the burning incense.

“Victor,” he called out, ending the song abruptly. “I should like some time alone to pay my respects to my esteemed parents.”

He glanced behind him, worried about the welfare of the driver and horse who brought him here. He could not see the carriage past other tall, gothic grave-markers and guardians. He bit his bottom lip anxiously. Since Victor was skilled at projecting his voice, there was no telling where he was hiding.

“Yuuri,” Victor seemed miffed that Yuuri did not continue the song, tone scolding as if he were still playing the part of father or mentor or fatherly mentor. He was none of those to Yuuri now. Now the voices at the edge of his consciousness, telling Yuuri he was weak and useless, sounded more and more like Victor's voice. Victor was becoming Yuuri's darkest demons, manifest in a man who played the ghost.

“Did it not occur to you that I came to pay my respects?” Victor went on.

 _They'd rise up and choke you with food, if they knew what you've done_ , Yuuri thought. Aloud, he said, “Then if you're done with your respecting, I should like to get on with mine. Alone.”

“But I'm also here to pay my respects to _you_ , Yuuri,” Victor purred. As if a curtain had been pulled back, his tone grew full of light, affection, and whimsy. “I never got a chance to speak to in a _tête-à-tête_ after that night's performance. You must allow me to defend my actions, you think ill of me because you know only part of . . .”

Yuuri shot to his feet, every nerve tingling, and not from the cold. He only knew it must be cold because snow littered the ground, and now his pant legs, like bleached dust. Because his breath bid him goodbye in white, stiff puffs.

“I care not, Victor,” he said. “No version of the story of Buquet's death paints you as a hero atop a white horse.”

“You think me a knave with a heart black as the night I love?” Finally, Victor showed himself, standing upon the makeshift shrine as if it were his claim. “Yuuri, Yuuri. You know me, and I you. You know that is not me. You must not let your friends tell you—”

“No. Your heart is cold, white, blinding ice that will never thaw,” said Yuuri. “There's your metaphor, if you want to talk metaphors. Goodbye for now, Victor.”

* * *

Victor thought Yuuri was bowing to him at first, but then he realized with a jolt of irritation that Yuuri was bowing to his parents.

Yuuri turned to march sullenly back to the cart.

 _What a change has been wrought, in so short a time,_ Victor mused, adjusting his hunched stance as he crouched atop the stone marker at the Katsuki grave. He hadn't planned on showing himself; he rather liked the idea of not making eye contact with Yuuri, until Yuuri saw him on the stage during the scene he wrote with both of them in mind.

But Yuuri, _again_ , was obliging him to change his plans. Not even Victor had anticipated the sheer depth of _stubbornness_ welled within Yuuri.

* * *

Yuri stood behind a stone angel, which had its head lowered, hands folded in dutiful eternal prayer. He felt like praying himself that Victor would let Yuuri leave with no argument. Victor had the upper hand, anyway, since they were all going to sing and dance to his tune later that evening.

Despite the hushed, awed atmosphere of the cemetery, he wanted to curse as he saw movement at the site of the grave. He watched Victor rise to his feet and step forward to the front apex of the stone marker, holding sword aloft. The skull halberd seemed to be laughing at the dreary sky.

From his angle, he could see just enough of Yuuri's turning profile to make out a dark scowl, like nothing he had ever seen before on Yuuri's features.

Yuuri planted his feet to face Victor and the stone bearing his parents' names in several scripts. “You hold _nothing_ sacred?” Yuuri asked. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since you style yourself as a ghost. But _Victor_ ,” and here, Yuuri's voice quavered. Yuri could easily hear the betrayal, the pain Yuuri felt at Victor becoming his greatest worry and distress and torment, after years of singing by his side.

The Victomte gritted his teeth and clenched both fists, desperate to keep himself from interfering. He knew Yuuri would want him to stand aside and let him face Victor on his own.

“Yuuri,” Victor said. “You must attend to what I say. I am here for you, and I always will be. No one else knows you as I do, no one else understands you as I do. You commune with music like no one I have ever met, Yuuri. You will commune with _my_ music in a way no one will ever be able to do so.

“I need you, Yuuri, the way a flame needs the air around it to burn. And you need me to set you aflame in turn, to harness your potential.

“I am sorry you lost your parents, Yuuri. Do not mistake me, I am. I may not a blood relation, but Yuuri . . . you are family to me. You make me feel awake, alive, inspired in ways I never thought possible. You make me think that together, we can achieve anything. Damn custom, damn consequence, damn the world. I know you feel empowered, inspired, rejuvenated with me, too.

“Our connection isn't something you can sever so easily, and why would you want to separate us? Our souls are tethered, one to another, with years of shared memories. A thousands of words, a thousand laughs, a thousand tears, a thousand sighs, a thousand smiles—”

“And you threw it away with one death,” said Yuuri. “Rather misguided, Victor, wouldn't you say? Now get the hell off my parents' grave.”

And Yuuri cast one last look of sorrow and resentment at Victor, before turning and putting up the hood of his cloak again.

“You think me _replaceable_?” Victor called after him. 

Yuri's jaw dropped—how could the ghost of the ice say anything after what Yuuri just told him? Anyone else would have been shamed to silent penance. 

“You think that you can just pick up with a childhood companion?” Victor continued, relentless, foot tapping restlessly atop the grave marker. “After not speaking for years? You mean to transfer your feelings, your thoughts, your soul's and body's yearnings to _him_ in a matter of weeks?

“Yuuri. I have shaped your life, you have brightened mine, for so long. I have been here this whole time; he has not. I am here now. Where is your little blonde fop at this fine moment?”

Yuri made his entrance then. He stepped out from behind the stone angel and paced back and forth near Yuuri's side, ecstatic to be moving again and unable to be still a moment longer.

His eyes met Yuuri's, and he was relieved to see warmth there to welcome him. Yuuri was glad of his moral support, and his restraint.

“I wish you had woken me, Yuuri,” the Vicomte told him. “I would have come if you had asked.”

“You came when I didn't ask,” Yuuri observed wryly. “But I'm sorry, Yuri. Now I realize it was unfair to leave you behind. You would have terrorized the whole opera house in your rage-induced worry and frustration.”

“How can you tease me at a time like this?” Yuri asked. Even so, he was a little glad Yuuri seemed capable of jesting. The dark sadness hanging over the singer was worse than Yuri had feared.

“I can,” said Yuuri, breaking into a full-blown smile, “because it's occurred to me I have not one, but _two_ Russians who refuse to take their eyes off me.”

Victor was _not_ pleased at their absorption in each other right before him.

“I see you brought a sword, little fop,” Victor called to the Vicomte. “Has it seen much use?”

“I know not, it's not mine,” said Yuri.

“Bringing an unfamiliar sword to a duel? Risky, risky,” Victor chided.

“Duel?” Yuuri repeated. “Certainly not, don't be ridiculous—”

But now, he was the one being left out. Pure blue eyes had locked with blue-green as Yuri drew his sword and bowed stiffly to Victor. He was done with this damned restraint, especially since Victor seemed incapable of it himself.

Victor jumped down from the stone marker, boots crunching in the snow. Yuri half-expected him to twirl for dramatic effect; Victor swished the hem of his cloak instead.

“No! Stop this instant!” Yuuri yelled at them.

Victor and Yuri stepped off the side away from Yuuri, in mutual agreement to leave him out of harm's way. They were better in tune with each other's movements than Yuuko and Yuuri when they danced together. Victor, naturally, was the first to lunge forward, sword thrust out in quest of Yuri's shoulder.

Yuri parried quickly and efficiently. As they circled, they crossed swords in rapid bursts, followed by a couple breaths' pause to analyze each other's skill. Even in that short time, it was plain that Yuri had better vastly superior footwork and form, both for attack and defense. He switched between the two with fluid precision.

Victor had a distinct advantage in strength and height, obliging Yuri to keep him always at arm's length and avoid angles that would give Victor leverage. It was clear that Yuri's victory was sure, if the duel drew long and Victor was unable to close in.

But Yuuri wasn't interested in being simply the audience, and Yuri knew it. Neither of them were made to watch idly. Yuri was determined to end the duel quickly.

Victor cursed as a snowball smacked him across the temple and ear. Yuri's eyes turned to the left, mouth open to beg for just another minute—

And promptly ate snow as a snowball broke against his face. All he saw was white.

Yelling, Yuri scrubbed his face, then turned his eyes to Victor, hoping he wasn't enough of a bastard to rush him while blinking away snow.

In front of Victor stood Yuuri, arms outstretched and eyes boring into Yuri's soul. “This duel is over!” Yuuri yelled, his face red and blotchy with anger.

Yuri saw his own surprise and admiration at Yuuri's daring mirrored in Victor's expression.

Yuuri turned around to face Victor, arms still in the air.

“Go back now, Victor. While you still can.”

Then Yuuri twisted to glance back at the Vicomte. “You promised to keep your wits about you,” he said.

Yuri felt his face heating up with shame.

“I will. I'm sorry, Yuuri. It won't happen again.”

Fondness softened Yuuri's features. “Thank you, Yuri. I know you're not used to curbing yourself like this. But I don't need you to prove yourself. I need you to take care of yourself.”

Then Yuuri looked back to Victor, softness falling away like a dropped shroud.

“Victor,” he said. “Be content that we are performing your opera tonight. Leave Yuri alone. I am the only Yuuri your focus begs. Until then, I must prepare for my role. Would you have me too exhausted to sing?”

And with that, Yuuri reached back and tapped Yuri on the shoulder, promptly him to back away with him. Shooting Victor a parting glare, the Vicomte complied.

The uncovered half of Victor's face seemed to imitate the neutral expression of his mask. But his eyes glittered with anticipation and excitement.

“Until then, my Yuuri. If you wish to wait, I will respect that.”

Yuri wanted to tell Victor it was too late to start acting like he didn't want to arrange Yuri's life, but he stayed quiet. The sooner they left, the better. He would not be a disappointment to Yuuri again so swiftly. And there was a chance that if they hurried . . .

“He drove the cart,” he whispered in Yuuri's ear. “If we hurry, we might make it back to the opera house on horseback together before he can drive the cart back.”

Yuuri nodded, as they backed away quietly. Yuri led them to where the horse was tethered and untied the reins, while Yuuri jumped onto the horse's back. Yuuri offered him a hand, and with a wrinkled face, Yuri allowed the singer to hoist him up in front of him. Then Yuuri linked his arms across Yuri's stomach and they were off.

They galloped and slowed to a walk by turns, going easy on the horse, since it had already made the first trek to the cemetery only moments before. But still, within minutes, Victor streaked by them, also riding bareback.

“Should we go back for the cart he left behind?” Yuri asked, after he had cursed for a moment or two. They kept the horse at a brisk walk. There was no way they would catch Victor, even if they drove the poor horse into the ground, and they weren't willing to do so.

Yuuri sighed. “No. Let someone retrieve it later.” He reached past Yuri's elbow and patted the horse's neck, then hugged Yuri tighter.

Yuri sighed. It was too optimistic of him to think they could have blocked and ambushed the Opera Ghost before the performance of Don Juan.

* * *

The Ice Castle Opera was a veritable beehive as everyone pushed themselves to their limits. Props and scenes for the stage were cobbled together with whatever was on hand, with whoever had the skills. Isabella and Takeshi were godsends in this regard. Yuuko and Yuri and even Giacometti were helping prepare food in the kitchens to keep energy and spirits high. Yuuri was directing Mickey and Jean-Jacques in helping Mila and Sara in the sewing room. Through it all, Minako tried to keep her wits over the ever-growing pile of clothes that needed to be perfect by that evening.

Everything, while hectic, seemed to be going as well as expected. Until Mila announced that she and Sara were almost finished with the last two of Yuuri's costumes, one of them for _that_ scene, “Point of No Return.”

Yuuri suddenly excused himself. Mila and Sarah and Mickey and Jean-Jacques all shot concerned glances at his retreating back. Yuuri could practically feel them.

He spent five minutes praying at the chapel and regulating his breathing. Part of him was glad that, during dress rehearsal in a couple hours, he would be able to play out the scene with Phichit. Hopefully that would help him calm his nerves. Phichit would probably do something outrageous. Perhaps don an enormous false mustache and twirl it suggestively in Yuuri's direction, as he pretended to be the seductive Don Juan with nefarious designs against Yuuri's innocence.

When Yuuri returned to the sewing room, Mila's greeting smile was bright. “Yuuri! We were just reliving fond memories. Do you remember the time we changed a death scene into a comedic farce? And the audience kept laughing, even during the genuinely sad speeches?”

Yuuri nodded. Jean-Jacques and Sara also offered their favorite stories. Mickey nodded at everything Sara said, rolled his eyes at everything Jean-Jacques said, and tried not to glare at Yuuri.

Mila announced that his costumes were truly finished. She shooed Yuuri to another end of the room to change behind a _shogi_ screen. She stood to the side and said quietly, “I know I can't tell you to worry, so I'll tell you this: don't fret like you are alone in this. You are not. Fret like someone with friends who will help him through this. Remember all our antics fondly. _Mine_ especially.”

“Very well,” said Yuuri, smiling as he slipped into a frothy black and seafoam-green skirt. “We have a lot of good memories to buoy us up, you are right, Mila. The masquerade dance especially. Would you have believed that Yuri would have put up with a corset and hoop skirt so we could dance? I'm still amazed that dress was his idea.”

Mila spluttered. “His idea, you say? Rubbish! _His_ idea had been a plain white gown, like a simple version of the one Yuuko wore to the ball. Naturally, Minako and I had better sense than _that_ , though Yuri still disagrees.”

He finished slipping on stockings and rose to his feet, peeking over the top of the screen and facing Mila head on. “I'm sorry . . . are you saying you _changed_ his outfit?”

Mila nodded. “And he didn't know, until Phichit and Yuuko sneaked away with him to help him dress. They say it was a miracle no one at the ballroom heard him swearing.”

“That was . . . that was _awful_ , Mila,” said Yuuri, ducking into a loose black corset and slipping it around his waist. He stepped out from behind the screen, and Mila sprang forward to yank the cords snug, but not too snug to breathe or sing. “You don't prank a man,” he paused, gasping a little, as Mila tugged harder than necessary, “the first time he wears a corset in public. No wonder he was already out for blood when he returned to the dance floor. I'm sorry I teased him so much.”

Mila grinned brightly. “It was worth it—consider it payback for how he pretended to ignore you at first. You're very welcome, Yuuri.”

“Mila,” said Yuuri, tone half-serious, half-playful. “I am suddenly feeling very apprehensive about the outfit for the ending scene. And I'm inclined to ask Sara to come in here and throw something together for me instead. She did an excellent job on adapting Phichit's costumes.”

Mila saw there was mounting anxiety under his joking manner, and her grin faded. “I'm sorry, Yuuri. Don't worry about your costume, it's simple. This same black corset, white blouse, yellow skirt, black lace shawl at your hips, rose in your brunette wig. You won't even have to wear shoes. Nothing you haven't already handled well.”

Yuuri sighed and nodded.

“Besides,” said Mila, throwing him a meaningful glance as she made sure his wig didn't have any nasty snags, “if we ever get the chance to stuff you into an enormous ballgown, we won't make it pink. We'll make it _blue_.”

Yuuri glanced at himself in a nearby mirror, satisfied. Mila unlaced him, and he went back behind the screen to strip and trade for the skirt and blouse and wig for Point of No Return.

The look Yuuri directed Mila when he appeared moments afterward, wig perfect but corset loose and askew, could have melted diamonds.

“Mila,” he said quietly. “Tell me you made a mistake with the sleeves.”

“The sleeves are perfectly fine, Yuuri,” said Mila sweetly. Her smile was like something from an inner circle of hell as she walked over and re-laced the corset.

Yuuri demonstrated his disapproval but the subtlest movement of his shoulders—and the lacy sleeves promptly fell from his shoulders to hang across his arms.

“Mila,” he repeated, warning sounding his in tone.

“Perfect,” Mila repeated, tugging and humming merrily to herself. “Just shrug partway through the scene, and you'll have Victor right where you want him.”

“Mila, I don't need these ridiculous sleeves to keep Victor's eyes on me. The man wrote an _entire opera_ to woo me. I can't get rid of him. _Kami_ knows how long that opera took him to write.”

Yuuri was quite sure Victor, genius though he is, could not write an entire opera within the space of a few days. He tried to think back, wondering if Victor said or did anything differently that might have hinted he was starting work on "Don Juan."

With a start, Yuuri realized that Victor had been dropping many hints about his admiration for Yuuri, weeks before Yuri arrived. His memory called forth a choice conversation in which Victor had raved for twenty minutes together about Yuuri's figure. Yuuri had just assumed it was another attempt to siphon confidence—how blind he had been. He was tempted to marvel at Victor's patience at his oblivious nature for such a time. He could feel himself blushing in mortification.

Mila did a couple last minute adjustments to the laces, then dashed to stand before him and admire her work. She squealed and enveloped him in a crushing hug. “That's the spirit, Yuuri!”

Yuuri sighed. He silently offered up a prayer that nothing more humiliating would occur before the play.

His prayer went unanswered. After a teasing from Giacometti that he hadn't contributed, Popovich offered to fix the makeup for the entire cast. Yuuri soundly protested anything beyond a couple dabs of powder for his face. Popovich wheedled him into a splash of rouge across his lips.

* * *

The audience filling the seats of the Ice Castle Opera were not entirely sure what to expect of the new play by an uncredited writer and composer, the first this opera house had put on since the disastrous _Il Muto _. But Yuuri could practically smell the morbid curiosity radiating from expectant expressions and tongues as he peeked out from the corner of the curtain, where no one could spot him. He had hoped that the audience would be small, and was dismayed to find nearly all the seats filled.__

_To think anyone would_ choose _to be here right now,_ he thought. 

As the stagehands prepared to lift the curtain, Yuuri skittered over to his mark for the opening scene. He looked round at his friends, locking eyes with Phichit, resplendent in blacks and browns stretched tight along his frame. Looking to Yuuko and Mila and Sara, all black lace skirts and red lips and cheeks, ready make the night memorable. Looking to Celestino and Minako and Yuri hovering by the edges of the stage. 

Yuri was bereft of his usual attire, garbed in grey and golden locks stuffed under a dingy brown cap. His blue-green eyes were closer to blue now, and seemed to burn like liquid embers that would never fade. Yuuri could tell it took everything within the Vicomte not to scream _davai_ at him. 

The curtains lifted, and the audience cheered. He looked to Giacometti and Giacometti's friend and Popovich, all seated in the front row, all clapping to him and willing him to make this the highlight performance of his career. 

And finally Yuuri looked to the seemingly vacant box five. 

_Enjoy this while you can, Victor. No matter who emerges victorious, this is the last time I sing anything you composed for me._

His nerves sent tremors through his hands, but he ground his nails against his palms and carried on with his introductory scene. Cheers greeted him as the audience recognized their heroine. Then the introduction set the tone in dark, salacious chaos, and the entire audience began to wonder what sort of play they were attending. 

The scenes sped by in a blur, but not fast enough for Yuuri. His anxiety mounted higher and higher, till he found himself fairly buzzing with his fears, as he took possession of the empty stage. Thus started the final act. He didn't know where his voice was coming from as he sang, amazed it was still with him, and still serving him well. 

_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy,_  
_No dreams within her heart, but dreams of light._

He sank down close to the west edge of the stage, legs curling behind him. His posture was rigid, despite his listless attitude, thanks to the black corset. He tilted his head to the side, as if his thoughts were too weighty, twirling a rose in his fingers. _Somehow_ a silver ribbon had found itself wrapped round the stem.

Victor had woven yet another thread in a veritable noose around his neck. Yuuri could barely breathe. They had to stop this. This was too risky, too much danger posed to his friends, especially Phichit and Yuri.

He was about to make the tapping motion across his jugular to signal he couldn't go on. Then he remembered the look he saw at the play's outset in Yuri's blue-green eyes.

 _If he can watch me act this out, then I can act this out,_ he chanted in his mind.

* * *

Yuri wasn't sure what to expect of Yuuri's behavior as he took the stage for the pivotal act. Every dancer on stage, every hand on set, ever hired musket and pistol waiting in the wings, tensed and fluttered in anticipation. How much more must Yuuri be feeling the tension.

Yuuri's moods had been incredibly erratic lately, even for Yuuri. It amazed Yuri just how many layers and facets there were to the singer.

Yuuri leaned in relaxed languor, the yellow skirt pooling around him, expression dreamy. Or it would be dreamy, if it weren't for the subtle pinching of his brows. He was not pleased with the rose held slanted across his knees, Yuri could see it plainly.

With a start, he realized that Yuuri was mimicking a familiar pose: this was how Yuuko had sat on her bed and sewed the finishing touches on her beaded mask. Both the current image, and the image in memory, made Yuri feel warm and at home, somehow. He was sure Yuuri's move was deliberate, perhaps his own way of soothing his nerves. The same way that Yuuri was ever-so-slightly slowing his breath intake.

Yuri wasn't sure it was a good thing he could spot the the subtle shift in Yuuri's breathing patterns. The intimacy, and vulnerability, of having memorized someone to that extent . . . It was not something Yuri wanted to think about.

* * *

Terror gripped Yuuri once again as he heard Victor's, and not Phichit's, voice singing softly behind him.

_Away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey!_

Yuuri wished the rose stem had not already been stripped of thorns; he wanted to jolt himself with a little pain. He settled for clenching his nails into his palms again, then relaxing. 

To his relief, in the corner of his eye, he saw Phichit off to the side of the stage, waving subtly at him to let him know he was alright. Yuuri took a deep, calming breath, relief setting his resolve anew.

_I am the most beautiful woman here, and nothing can lessen my charms, not even my fear. I will bend this playboy Don Juan to suit my purpose, not his. He thinks me wild, yet quiet? Bewitching, yet shy? Titillating, yet innocent? This man hasn't seen the half of it._

And as if a candle had been lit within him, Yuuri felt his mood shift. His mind went to a haven where worry could not follow, where there was room for nothing but cunning, daring, and passion.

 _And_ Victor's undivided worship.

Victor's voice caressed him once again, tone so laden with promise, a shivering chill beset him. Yuuri could feel gooseflesh rising in his skin.

 _You have come here_  
_In pursuit of your deepest urge._

Slowly, limbs lithe but lazy, like that of a cat, Yuuri rose to his feet. For a moment, he stood with hips slanted, expression thoughtful. Back still turned to Victor, as if had a mind to ignore him. Coquettish in a naive way, as if he knew not how his body and posture affected his audience. (But of course he _did_.) Like a girl on the cusp of womanhood, not sure if she wanted to leave her happy child's world just yet, but curious all the same.

_In pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent._

Yuuri closed his eyes, letting his expression relax, as if he were entering a waking dream.

 _I have brought you,_  
_That our passions may fuse and merge._

Finally, Yuuri turned to look back upon Victor. Victor was resplendent in layers of black—black boots, black leather trousers almost tight enough to hurt, black cravat almost hiding his white shirt, black shimmering vest, black coat with regal tails. Black mask framing his eyes burning cold, icy blue. And a black cape billowing behind him every time he swished the hem with one arm.

The flowers embroidered along Victor's vest, hemlines of his jacket, and shoulders of his cape were crimson and deep gold, complimenting the roses on Yuuri and the burnt yellow skirt swathing his legs.

 _Of course_ there was an abundance of flowers to decorate a scene about (an obviously virginal) young woman's seduction. Yuuri wanted to slap a palm against his forehead.

Yuuri realized that Victor must have either glimpsed Mila sewing his costume, or Sara sewing Phichit's. He felt a cold weight settling in his stomach.

 _In your mind you've already succumbed to me,_  
_Dropped all defenses,_  
_Completely succumbed to me._

Victor jerked the cravat loose, so it splayed uselessly across his shoulders. His shirt was strategically left open halfway to his navel, ruffled edges framing and drawing attention to the skin at the same time.

But his silver hair was tied back with a ribbon of blue, the ends lying across one shoulder to make sure Yuuri saw the color Victor associated with him. That everyone associated with Yuuri.

 _Now you are here with me,_  
_No second thoughts, you've decided, decided._

At this point, the script called for Yuuri to hesitantly take a couple steps toward Victor, eyes shy but locking with Don Juan's gaze. Yuuri stood immovable, and looked away. Almost like a matador pointedly ignoring the bull in a fit of piqued irritation. Like a petty snub.

Curious to see how the audience was drinking in this scene, Yuuri glanced in the direction of the first row. Giacometti was staring open-mouthed, Georgi looked like his heart was breaking for Victor's sake in spite of himself (what a romantic), and Giacometti's friend looked as if he wanted nothing more than to tackle Victor to the ground.

_Past the point of no return, no backward glances._

The audience beyond Popovich and Giacometti were scandalized yet transfixed. Yuuri imagined the audience's mood was similar to that of those witnessing the first performance of _Carmen_ a few years before. And it looked like the scandalized expressions were more for each other's benefits. This was a tale more appropriate for cabaret, not opera . . . but this was a French audience, and the French could not deny they loved cabaret. 

Now that everyone was forgetting to appear reluctant, they were letting themselves draw in to the scene. Draw in the way Victor wanted everyone to memorize Yuuri's emotions, which they could only watch, and not act upon like Victor could. 

_Poor, deprived souls,_ Yuuri thought. _If only they knew what this scene is actually about, not just what it appears to be._

Victor sang on.

 _Our games of make believe are at an end._  
_Past all thought of if or when, no use resisting._  
_Abandon thought, and let the dream descend._

* * *

At the scene's beginning, Victor saw Yuuri sitting almost primly off to the side of the stage. Victor had been _so very tempted_ to peek at Minako preparing the dress Yuuri was to wear in this scene. But he forbore, limiting himself only to sneaking a look at the costume made for Phichit. Because he needed to stay in his lair for safety. Because he needed to finish the preparations for the play's aftermath. And because, even he had to admit, he _loved_ surprises.

And what a surprise this was! Yuuri somehow captured the mien of a milkmaid, a cabaret girl, a tavern wench, and a choir girl all in one. Victor almost felt faint. And he was sure that Yuuri wasn't even _consciously_ doing so, but letting his impeccable instincts guide him.

Yuuri was _very_ conscious of the silver ribbon wrapped round the rose's stem. Victor smiled.

But his true offering wasn't the rose memento. No, that was just a gentle reminder, to think of Victor fondly.

The real offering of love was this: he let Phichit Chulanont don Don Juan in his stead . . . and _live_. That was the metaphorical rose offering. (And Phichit _did_ seem to have an affinity for red.)

Victor hoped and trusted that Yuuri understood his full meaning.

Victor Nikiforov made accommodations for no one, save Yuuri.

* * *

Yuuri's eyes lingered on the edge of the stage. He could feel Victor's gaze like the penetrating rays of the sun. He focused on his breathing, on keeping his shoulders still so those damn sleeves stayed in place, on Victor's voice. Victor's unparalleled voice.

 _What raging fire shall flood the soul?_  
_What rich desire unlock its door?_

Even at his flirtiest as Yuuri's mentor, Victor always held back slightly, as if he knew too much would make Yuuri bolt entirely. But now . . . now Victor was dashing his restraints to pieces. He let his every thought and whim (and did Victor _ever_ have a lot of whims) show in his movements and his voice, and Yuuri saw it, felt it plainly. Even though he was only glancing side to side to keep Victor's shape in his peripheral vision.

Yuuri smiled to himself. He wasn't sure if he could maintain this subtly cruel mistress mood throughout the entirety of the scene—but he was going to damn well make it count, however long it lasted. He had stamina and stubbornness in his favor, at least.

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_

With a guarded glance in Victor's direction again, he took in Victor as an observer, and not a participant of the scene. What was Victor presenting to Yuuri? How could Yuuri bombast everything Victor had planned, and then steer them where even Victor's imagination could not follow? How could he leave Victor scrambling to wrest the scene back to his original plan?

 _No, Yuuri, you're over-thinking again_ , he chided himself. He would have to bank on his instinct and intuition outstripping Victor's impulses.

So Yuuri bid goodbye to the voices in his head—all but one that was determined to see Victor swept off his feet before he knew what Yuuri was about. Again, he retreated to his mental haven. Yuuri felt as if he were wading into a deep pool, till he plunged beneath the surface—but instead of drowning, he felt as if he could _breathe_.

Yuuri looked away from Victor, rising to his feet and swaying side to side, as if trying to ignore Victor and dance to his own tune in his own soul.

 _Past the point of no return, the final threshold_  
_What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?_

Victor was slowly advancing one step at a time, as if giving Yuuri time and space to retreat, should he wish. Yuuri continued to act as if Victor's existence meant nothing to him, much less his proximity. Let the man prance and posture, no beautiful woman would be persuaded by actions tailored to win her favor. 

Anyone could bluster and flatter. (And by far, the man best fitted for that was Jean-Jacques, the blustering for others and the flattery for himself.) The stray flash of humor in his dark thoughts made Yuuri smile, feeling scornful and a little vindictive, now he was wholly in the mindset of a woman all-too-aware of her captivating qualities.

No one could win a woman. One could only hope that besotted persistence would be seen as dedication, and not nuisance. And then maybe, _maybe_ , the woman would feel magnanimous enough to suffer another worshiper at her feet. And pray the woman wouldn't grow bored after winning another wayward soul.

* * *

Yuri stared at the mocking smile that burst forth on Yuuri's face. Yuri's limbs suddenly felt like they belonged to a new-born colt. He didn't know whether to be grateful or jealous that the look wasn't directed at him. Victor saw it, too.

_Beyond the point of no return._

Yuri heard Victor pause for a fraction of a second before singing that last verse on time with the music. Yuri thought Victor dropped a word, but was still too deeply affected to really attend to the lyrics.

Yuri wanted to step out to join Yuuri on the stage. And here they hadn't even reached the truly trying segment of the scene, when everything rapidly unraveled, like a woman discarding layers upon layers of clothes like so many rose petals.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Phichit walk up to stand beside him. Phichit was fidgeting, in the way Yuuri was prone to fidget, and not merely because his costume was skin-tight. “This is nothing like the rehearsal,” Phichit said quietly, taking advantage of a lull in the song. “Yuuri is going off-script. He's supposed to be an _ingenue_ here, but all I see is . . .” His voice trailed off, unable to describe the aura with which Yuuri had enveloped himself, like a fur coat. 

Even Yuuri's voice had taken on almost taunting lilt as he sang.

 _You have brought me to that moment where words run dry._  
_To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence..._

“Today Yuuri is a seasoned seductress who has lured, captured, then spit out a thousand hearts,” said Minako, voice low. Yuri glanced at her. She was appraising Yuuri's posture with reluctant approval. Yuri hardly heard the next lines.

Yuuri had spent two hours alone with Minako practicing for this role. Yuri figured it must have paid off well. With a start, Yuri realized her manner was that of one woman paying another respect for her skill with feminine wiles. And that she probably saw this coming, and did her best to equip Yuuri to be a deadly force.

He looked at Phichit, who was nodding and watching Yuuri with concern and a bit of awe.

“He's rebelling,” Celestino added. “He's making Victor _work_ to keep control of this scene.”

Yuri looked back to Yuuri. The singer was finally turning to send Victor a look that lingered longer than a couple blinks.

* * *

Finally, finally Yuuri deigned to turn and arch his neck to look at Victor over his shoulder. Victor was arrested by chocolate brown eyes. And they would _not_ release him, just gazed and gazed, impassive and distant. Arrogant, even. Yuuri and arrogance had no place as bedfellows—but how eerily well the supercilious mien suited him, in an infuriating away. So different from the warmth and depth Victor was used to admiring.

 _What is my Yuuri_ doing _to my masterpiece_? Victor wondered.

The scene sounded the same as Victor had imagined, but Yuuri's posture, attitude, and delivery of every line felt almost like a mockery.

Victor had thought the cemetery would see the last of Yuuri's defiance against Victor's guidance and planning. That only Yuuri's undying grief for his late parents had made him unusually disagreeable. That once Yuuri was on the stage, with Victor's music seeping into every pore and Victor himself standing before him offering to never leave, Yuuri would slowly thaw.

Yuuri had never seemed colder.

Far later than the script called for, Yuuri moved. He did not draw near. Instead, he circled Victor, never letting Don Juan close the gap to take the maiden's hand. And so they orbited one another, locked in a dance with neither beginning nor end, like a carousel no one wanted to stop turning. Like predator and prey staring each other down, but with the lines between them blurred, to make one wonder who would emerge as hunter, and who as hunted.

_I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why._

Victor would suffer no more of this, he had been patient and humored Yuuri's mood long enough. With two quick steps, he all-but vaulted to Yuuri's side and seized his hand. 

_In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining,_  
_Defenseless and silent, and now I am here with you._

Yuuri watched him with guarded curiosity as Victor caressed his fingers and palm with both hands, then clasped Yuuri's hand in his right and trailed his left hand reverently up Yuuri's arm. The movement made the lace sleeves at Yuuri's shoulders slide off to hang like banners along his arms. Victor was transfixed.

But before Victor's fingers could wryly set the sleeves to rights, Yuuri stepped away, cool and unconcerned, and fixed the sleeves himself. As if his whim was no longer inclined to humor Victor. As if he was ready to direct his focus elsewhere, to humor someone else less boring, more apt to engage his fancy.

_No second thoughts, I've decided, decided..._

Victor's gaze narrowed, and for a moment, he saw red. Pulling away _was_ in his script, but Yuuri was rebelling in fine form. The shy girl was supposed to be a little spooked by the speed and heat, just in need of a little more coaxing and reassurance and spellbinding. She was not supposed to look . . . _unamused_ , like a not-at-all austere version of Queen Victoria. She was not supposed to deliver such passionate lines with an ironic lilt.

 _I'm not here to while away a dull moment, Yuuri,_ Victor thought. _Do not act like you'd rather watch and hear someone else's performance_.

He hoped his gaze would remind Yuuri he was treading upon thin ice on this stage with the Opera Ghost. He saw a subtle stiffening in Yuuri's shoulders. And he knew, Victor _knew_ , that Yuuri's next shuddering breath was to calm himself as the warning sunk in.

Yuuri would not defy him again, if not for his own sake, than for the sake of those bound to him and his actions. _What folly, tying yourself down. I tie myself to no one, save you, Yuuri. Even then, it's more appropriate to say that you are tied to me._

_Past the point of no return, no going back now,_  
_Our passion play has now, at last, begun._

And then Yuuri suddenly snapped and relaxed his shoulders, and the white lace sleeves slipped down again.

And then those brown eyes fixed Victor with a look that had him drowning. All in existence narrowed down to the promise of passion in Yuuri's eyes.

Victor felt as if his mask, his scars, his very skin were stripped away. That his boundless yearning for someone to share the isolation of a genius was out in the open for all to see.

And then Yuuri was slowly, oh-so-gracefully prowling toward him, rose in hand, as if he carried Victor's soul within it. Yuuri tapped the ruddy petals against ruddy lips. As if Yuuri was idly contemplating whether he would return it, or taunt Victor with it. 

Victor had written a play on love and passion. But now it felt more like a play on veiled death throes.

 _Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question_  
_How long should we two wait, before we're one?_

And just like that, Victor was alive again, as if Yuuri's voice was breathing air into his lungs.

Yuuri drew away and stalked towards the spiraling staircase on his side of the stage. _Oh,_ Victor thought. _Staircases. I wanted staircases rising like our excitement. That's right._

It took every fiber of his being not to stumble his way across the stage and up the steps.

_When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom?  
When will the flames, at last, consume us?_

Victor was quite convinced he was consumed already, and he couldn't climb the stairs quickly enough while keeping to the beat of the music.

* * *

Yuri was in hell. This entire scene had taken a turn he had not anticipated. Yuuri had taunted Victor at every turn, and still had not given the signal for his friends or the hired muscle to charge. And now, inexplicably, he was playing Victor's game with far more zeal than necessary. Yuri had watched enough of Yuuri's performances. He knew when Yuuri was acting out a scenario he had never experienced personally. He knew when Yuuri was baring his soul in a scenario he had lived.

Yuuri's soul was burning brightly. Yuri knew nothing like this mutual seduction had ever happened to Yuuri before, but Yuuri was not acting. He was _living_ this. He was nearly as lost in the moment as Victor was.

Yuri glanced to Phichit, to Minako, to Celestino. They were all aghast. This was a side to Yuuri none of them knew existed.

 _No wonder Yuuri didn't want to do this,_ Yuri thought. _He knew the price was steeper than any of us realized. Oh, Yuuri. I'm so sorry._

* * *

Yuuri had to wait a few beats at the top of his staircase for Victor to catch up. He felt as if wine were bubbling in his veins. Before this moment, he had known he was nearly guaranteed to lose himself in this role. To be caught up with living and breathing and _feeling_ , as a seductress finally allowing herself to be seduced in turn.

Yuuri hadn't anticipated just how intoxicating the sheer _power_ was. How addicting it was to _demand_ obeisance of heart and soul, and actually receive it. How satisfying it was to treat devotion like something to be waved aside, then cultivated at whim.

How much all that worship coming from Victor could still have an effect on him, even now.

Yuuri barely had the presence of mind to remember his signal system, and tap slowly against his calf through his skirt.

Once Victor also stood on the last step, they surged toward each other to meet in the middle of the wood planking. Yuuri's bare feet padded softly, while Victor's boots sounded like drumbeats. Their voices mingled as Yuuri found himself sinking into Victor's arms.

 _Past the point of no return, the final threshold_  
_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn_  
_We've passed the point of no return._

Yuuri was ready to cry. Victor was massaging his temples, stroking his neck, tracing the seams of the corset and the edges of the lace. Yuuri felt the same floating, weightless joy he experienced when dancing. Even though now he was still as a statue, save for one hand stroking Victor's exposed cheekbone. In that moment, Victor was everything that was gentle, tender, affectionate. 

Everything Yuuri had wanted and needed from Victor, before Victor's actions drove a wedge between them.

Victor even smelled like roses, with an undercurrent of something sharp and sour that Yuuri could not place.

The jaunty confidence of the seductress left Yuuri in a shaky exhale of breath. No longer could he depend on a frame of mind to bolster him. He was just Yuuri again. Soft, frightened, danger-prone Yuuri. The dam behind his eyes broke. Yuuri let his tears frame his mourning for what once existed only in his mind, and could never exist again, even in his imagination.

Then Victor started singing again, and Yuuri only cried all the more bitterly. He was lucky indeed he had no more lines to sing in that scene, for he knew his voice would break worse than Jean-Jacques' had broken before.

 _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_  
_Lead me, save me from my solitude._  
_Say you want me with you, here beside you_  
_Anywhere you go let me go too._

There was so much need, so much adoration, in Victor's blue eyes. Yuuri could hardly see anything beyond. With a start, he realized he must bring out the best in Victor. Perhaps he couldn't blame himself for seeing the best in Victor for so long. For being blind to the shards of something sinister beneath Victor's words and actions and intentions. Yuuri had almost, _almost_ tamed a monster. 

And while Yuuri could compel Victor to worship him, he couldn't compel Victor to value other people. One could never tame or beg or seduce murder out of a man.

Yuuri held out on that last thought like a drowning man onto a piece of shipwreck. He let it lend him the strength to guide his hand to Victor's mask and tear it off.

All the breath left Victor's lungs, as if his core had been hit with the force of a locomotive. Yuuri's eyes swam so much with tears, he could barely see the pain and betrayal give way to cold resolve in Victor's gaze. Could barely see the criss-cross of scars along one side of his face.

Now with both hands free, Yuuri acted as if he were hitching a belt round his hips, the motion for his friends to close in.

But Yuuri clearly saw the handkerchief incoming, before his whole world went white and his nostrils stung with a choking acidic scent.

_Chloroform. Oh, ye gods, Victor is using chloroform on me! Yuri, I'm so, so sorry._

That was Yuuri's last thought before soft blackness dragged him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs for everyone. I promise Yuuri and Yuri will be okay. I wrote a fluffy [Victuuri oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10901340) to make myself feel better, maybe it'll make you feel better too? Also try inhaling lucycamui's ultra-fluffy Victuuri fic [Like a Fairytale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9373529/chapters/21220337), if you haven't already. It is AMAZING.
> 
> The talk of pink and blue was totally a reference to Sleeping Beauty. Heart of ice was also a reference to Frozen. LOVE THOSE MOVIES.
> 
> Victor needing Yuuri the way a flame needs air (or more to the point, oxygen) to burn prompted me to research. How much did the Victorians know about oxygen? Apparently we owe the first (well-known) breakthrough on oxygen to this 1700s English minister and scientist named Joseph Priestley, who was a buddy of both Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. Fascinating stuff, why did I not remember this from school?
> 
> I borrowed the line about eyes and liquid embers from my own LJ icon made years ago. Yes, I am a GACKT fangirl. GACKT and Final Fantasy cutscenes were my gateway drug into J-rock and anime.
> 
> The line about a woman respecting another woman's skill with feminine wiles was written with this scene in mind. Morticia is my everything, y'all.
> 
> To make sure my Carmen reference wasn't a crime against history, I hopped over to Wikipedia. Carmen debuted in 1875 and yep, it scandalized even its French audience. But looks it didn't really take off until 1883.
> 
> Thanks to Nightshade's suggestion of the Phantom of the Opera metal cover, I've added to my writing playlist for this fic. Most of these are super obvious, but here goes:
> 
> The Stage – Avenged Sevenfold  
> Phantom of the Opera Metal Cover – Jonathan Young & Malinda Kathleen Reese  
> Think of Me  
> Prima Donna  
> The Phantom of the Opera  
> Music of the Night  
> All I Ask of You  
> Masquerade  
> Point of No Return  
> Down Once More  
> Stammi Vicino  
> In Regards to Love – Eros  
> Yuri on ICE  
> In Regards to Love – Agape  
> La Parfum de Fleurs  
> Theme of King JJ  
> Partizan Hope  
> Welcome to the Madness  
> Phantom of the Opera Cover – Lindsey Stirling  
> Phantom of the Opera meets Metal – 311Erock  
> Bulletproof Heart – My Chemical Romance  
> All Day All Night – Neon Trees  
> In the Name of Love – Martin Garrix and Bebe Rexha  
> Na Na Na – My Chemical Romance  
> 1 Hour of Dark Music | Music by Peter Gundry  
> 2 Hours of Dark Music by Adrian von Ziegler


	8. White Shining in the Dungeon of Black Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Yuuri have a gut-wrenching heart-to-heart in Victor's lair. Yuuri's darkest secret and Yuri's appearance throws Victor over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP LAST CHAPTER, WHAT? So sorry for the month-long delay! Personal life has been busy/exhausting and lack of confidence froze my hand.
> 
> Previous 7 chapters were edited to improve typos, refer to Makkachin as a she, and make Yuri's eyes blue-green. (The things you learn on tumblr. [Just look at this](http://image.ibb.co/dX2ZC5/Yuri_On_Ice_09.jpg)). Also added a few lines in chapters 3, 4, and 7 to improve the flow of Victor trying to woo super-oblivious Yuuri.
> 
> This chapter is inspired by [Christine's gorgeous not-wedding dress](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/fa/b4/3d/fab43d071fad2531b96168fb42304769.jpg). Rating upped to mature, for safety. Not very violent, but _very_ melodramatic, threatening, and messed up. Also a warning: Yuuri talks about depression and death here. If you need something happy, skip this until you feel better. Take care, everyone. Living with depression takes more strength than we give ourselves credit for.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for reading. You inspire me when inspiration is lacking. May you all have the courage to win (like Yuuri) in all you set your hearts, minds, and hands to doing!
> 
> Chapter 9 is a poll for you to vote on which of my story ideas I should flesh out next. Check it out and comment, if you're interested!
> 
> Still unbeta'd. I do not own Yuri!!! on Ice or Phantom of the Opera. Just my anxiety. Constructive criticism is welcome!

“YUURI!”

Yuri Plisetsky was screaming before he could stop himself. He surged forward as he saw Yuuri struggling against the handkerchief Victor held over Yuuri's nose and mouth with one arm. Victor's other arm and hand pinioned Yuuri's arms to his sides. Yuri thought he saw Celestino and Phichit hurtling across the stage beside him. Yuri wanted to yell at anyone with a gun to shoot Victor through the head, but no one could make a move with Yuuri there beside him.

Yuuri should have given the signal for them to close in long ago.

He watched Yuuri go limp, watched Victor hold up a long, sharp blade and slice a rope by the scaffolding. And then Victor and Yuuri were falling down a gaping hole in the center of the stage. Yuri screamed again, willing his legs to move, but his limbs and lungs felt like lead. He only made it to the edge of the hole after it closed to block his path.

Then Yuri heard a lurching, ominous creak from above, and looked out at the audience as they shrieked and scrambled in terror. The grand chandelier gracing the ceiling shuddered like a web of a thousand ice crystals about to plummet.

Popovich and Giacometti were helping evacuate the first few rows. Takeshi and the other musicians barely followed on the mass exodus in time to clear their seats. The glittering chandelier crashed and fractured on red velvet in the front row, and the humble pews of the orchestra. One shattered lantern on the mighty chandelier was all it took—in an instant, flames sprung like specters midst the sheet music and wooden pews.

Yuri stamped on the stage, eyes misty with helpless frustration. As patron, he should look to the fire and guests first. But all he wanted to do was make sure Yuuri was safe.

Phichit thrust a club into Yuuri's hand. “Come on, we'll smash it!” he urged, nodding to the closed trap door at their feet.

Yuri stared at the small ax in Phichit's other hand. “You kept these on hand?” he asked.

Phichit nodded grimly.

Yuri decided to be selfish. “Celestino, Minako! I leave this to you!” he yelled, sweeping one arm at the chaos around him. Celestino was herding guests through an emergency exit and probably didn't hear him. Yuri and Phichit took turns bludgeoning the floor. The boards splintered beneath them.

“Go!” Minako yelled at Yuri, somehow emerging from the edge of the stage with Yuuko and a few buckets of water in tow.

“I'll wait here, in case Yuuri escapes,” said Phichit, looking down the murky gap now large enough for Yuri's passage.

Yuri nodded, finding the idea sound. “If my friend gets here on time, send him after me,” he said, thankfully clapping Phichit on the arm.

“Is that what that note was about?” Phichit asked, one brow raised, curious even in crisis.

Yuri jumped through the hole without answering, ready to swear unceasingly for the rest of his life if Victor had left a nasty surprise to end his fall. 

* * *

Yuuri's first sight upon opening his eyes was glittering black. A curtain hedging in a bed shaped like a clam's shell.

Yuuri's thoughts flickered back to the first time he woke to a curtain, tamping down on the nostalgia. If only his primary worry _now_ were merely a missing dressing gown. Part of him wished he could simply throw the curtain aside, rush to the gondola, and push his way across the water to leave Victor's lair behind.

But he knew Victor would not risk his escape. Not after he'd built a new trapdoor in the floor (how long had it been there?) and _used chloroform on him_. Victor would be on hand to stop him, by any means.

Yuuri was rather surprised he was unbound. _Small mercies,_ he thought.

He glanced down and saw yellow bunched about his thighs and knees, and those damn fluffy white sleeves hanging off his shoulders. The corset was lying folded astride a pillow to his left, thankfully, or else Yuuri might have woken with a stiff back and cramped lungs.

Yuuri tugged his way past the curtains and scrounged the small cavern of a room for a change of clothes. He mentally thanked _kami_ that Victor was not hovering by, watching him sleep and rise.

But the room offered only blankets draped here and there, and Victor's discarded Don Juan ensemble.

Yuuri found it highly ironic to be switching costumes from maiden to playboy. But he refused to spend another second in the costume for the role Victor wrote for him. So Don Juan would have to do for the moment. Yuuri stubbornly buttoned up the ruffled white shirt to his collarbones, as high as the buttons would go. He left the jacket and cape alone.

Yuuri grit his teeth, puffed out his chest, and marched out to the main cavern that made up Victor's lair.

He stopped, mouth agape, when he spotted Victor standing in the path between Yuuri and the gondola.

Victor was wearing the wedding gown that used to cover Yuuri's life-size wax figure. Even the gloves. The mock ice shards all over the cavern seemed to glitter brighter, picking up the gown's white glow suffused in the candlelight. Victor still had his silver hair bound in that damned ponytail with the thrice-damned blue ribbon. Yuuri's mother's wedding band hung round a chain on Victor's neck.

Yuuri's first thought was, _He can't fit those measurements—did he alter it? How much sewing has he done in the last week?_ His second thought was, _Did he leave Don Juan's trappings behind for me on purpose?!_

“Yuuri,” said Victor. One hand was absently tracing the gathers dripping down from beneath the creamy white bodice. His eyes were alight, but his smile was guarded. “I trust you slept—”

“Do you chloroform all the people you bring down here?”

Victor's smile turned steely indeed. “You know you're the only other human being who has—”

“I'm starting to question your humanity, Victor,” Yuuri went on, unabashed and unashamed. “Question everything. I don't know who _you_ think you are, but you're certainly _not_ my teacher.” Yuuri walked up to stand beside Victor, part of him terrified to draw near, but the other part of him too incensed to care.

Victor's scars seemed more pronounced in the candlelight, a livid white clash of long, straight lines that only made his eyes wax a deeper blue. He must have caught Yuuri's added meaning in spurning politeness and interrupting him.

“Are you really going to pretend you are blameless, with your little stunt back there, Yuuri?” Victor spat. “You unmasked me! And now, here we are!”

And Victor began to sing.

 _Down once more in the dungeon of my black despair!_  
_Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!_  
_Down that path into darkness deep as hell!_  
_Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place?_  
_Not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!_

“You had the entire opera house staff in mortal terror, lest you kill anyone else,” Yuuri argued, ignoring Victor's singing as best he could. It was a difficult task; Victor's voice was even more powerful and engrossing with such anger and resentment steeping it. As if the notes fell differently on the ear, like his tone was thickening. He sounded more human, less monstrous. 

“I had to protect myself and the ones that I love,” Yuuri went on.

“And what of _me_? You would have me trammeled like some common thief?” Victor goaded. “You're not the only one who can't escape his own mind, Yuuri. If you think me mad here, I assure you the horrors will grow tenfold if I am caged in a jail cell.”

Yuuri leaned for support against one of the solid, jagged walls of rock. “You killed a man, Victor.”

“If I deserved that humiliation you heaped upon me, then he deserved exactly what he got.”

“You're hopeless.” And Yuuri turned his back to Victor, ignoring every fiber of his being which screamed to watch and be wary. Let Victor chloroform him again, if he wished him silent. After a few moments of fuming, he asked, “So will you keep _me_ trammeled here, then?”

“What would you have me do?!” Victor screamed. The abrupt rage made Yuuri start and turn around. The walls wailed mournful echos of the Opera Ghost's exasperation. “You won't stay with me on your own. You're too easily led astray. You're too fond of your precious namesake. You would listen to _his_ entreaties, but not mine.”

 _And here rises the angel of music's jealousy yet again_ , Yuuri thought. He looked Victor's face over once more. The blue eyes were alight with fathomless resentment. It was as if Victor thought that all the world's rejections were crystallized into Yuuri's rejection of him in that moment. As if Victor thought that he might retake the world, if Yuuri accepted his sway. _How could someone so . . . grand, so capable, so talented, fall so far?_

Yuuri was so adept at seeing the potential, seeing the promise of what a person could be. He had completely missed what was truly there in Victor's heart and mind and soul. Maybe Victor pretended to be what I wanted to see in him? he thought. No. He did his best to be the angel I needed him to be. But that was too steep a role, even for him.

“Oh? You think I am exaggerating your attachment to the Vicomte, do you not?” Victor asked.

Yuuri blinked, surprised out of his train of thought. If only Victor knew of whom he had been thinking . . . 

Victor smiled at Yuuri like he was about to eat a bowl of _katsudon_ in front of him without offering him a bite. He gathered the edges of the tiered skirt in one hand and skittered over to a pile of stationary, some littered with a looping script, some empty and waiting for inspiration to strike. 

From beneath an envelope, Victor pulled out a small card. He returned to Yuuri and dangled it before his nose, as if it were a sample of perfume. Yuuri just barely made out _Yuri Plisetsky_ written out very ill indeed.

And then Victor swept over to the candles burning atop the rock-hewn piano. He let a flame embrace the dancing engagement card.

“It burns splendidly,” said Victor, smiling at Yuuri.

Yuuri's hands clenched. The double-barb delivered with one of Mila's favorite words only incensed him further. “Do you steal _everything_ that makes you think of me?”

Victor's smile didn't dim. “I've never stolen any of your underwear, if that's what you're asking,” he said blithely. Yuuri's mind stuttered to a stop for a moment; that particular thought had never entered his head. “I do confess to filching this,” Victor went on. And he held up Yuri's opera glasses with the dangling red Japanese fan in his other hand. He set the dancing engagement card down in an ashtray to burn to dust. “And also this.” With his now-free hand, Victor reached behind his back and drew out matching red gloves made for a child.

Yuuri could almost feel steam wafting out his ears. _Now the magician is just showing off,_ he thought. _Where were those hiding—in the bodice?_ Summoning his courage to keep himself from stuttering, he turned away once more, throwing over his shoulder, “Well, now I know how you plan to keep us warm.”

“Indeed. You'll need something to keep you warm, without your little kitten here.”

Yuuri's jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?” He spun around to stare at a triumphant smirk on Victor's face. He seemed glad that Yuuri could not keep his eyes away from him from long. Yuuri went on, “Are you insinuating—”

Victor waved, as if dismissing Yuuri's offended pride. “Spare me.” And he promptly tossed both glasses and red gloves into the murky water a few paces away. Yuuri bit his lip to keep from screaming. “ All I need to know about your relationship is this: can you truly care for him, Yuuri? Can he truly care for you? What does he know about you? You knew him for one spring ten years ago, and a few weeks this year. ”

"It is true, I haven't known him very long," said Yuuri. "Yet even in such a short time, he's proven himself. How many trifling acquaintances would stand by me, steadfast and determined, in adversity, as he has done?"

Victor only grew more wrathful. "I knew you for a decade, and I'm still learning things about you, and you about me."

Yuuri's memory circled back to the day he'd first realized that Victor had been flirting all morning.

_“Yuuri!” His teacher's voice sounded like he was standing right behind him and whispering in his ear. Yuuri didn't turn to look. The Opera Ghost liked to pull this trick regularly, too regularly. Yuuri hadn't looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his teacher, since he was twelve._

_Besides, Yuuri had to finish spring cleaning his room today, while he still had time. If he could reinvent his room anew, maybe a bit of that rebirth could leach into his bones, and help him with his roles in the upcoming spring season._

_“Yes, my tutor?” Yuuri asked, absorbed in pasting new layers of paper and tissue along the framework for the_ shogi _door. He shifted in his crouch by the framework's base to set one knee to the floor._

 _“I do believe you're ready for the role of the lawyer's incorrigible son!” said the Opera Ghost, tone smug with satisfaction. “I_ told _you the role was perfect for you. You have this light in your eyes when you are laughing on the inside, and when you exaggerate it and put a swagger in your step, it's perfect. You will captivate the audience, and I know who shall be first in line to sing your praises.”_

_Yuuri nodded absentmindedly. If he didn't focus, he'd end up with slits in his fingertips. He let his tutor's voice, rich and sensuous even when he was yammering the first words that flew into his head, wash over him without really attending. He had a vague sense that Victor was complimenting his hair, his voice, the depth of feeling in his attachments, no doubt trying to boost Yuuri's fragile confidence._

_“Yuuri? What's the matter?” Now his teacher's voice seemed to be floating along the ceiling of Yuuri's bedroom. “I am thoroughly spoiling you. And you will_ not _be spoiled. Incorrigible boy, indeed. How shall I tame you?”_

 _Yuuri hummed a soft tune, but said nothing. His tutor had been saying_ incorrigible _all morning, and all Yuuri could think about was the most incorrigible person he ever met. A boy of nine who liked_ katsudon _and sand fights, missed his grandpa, and hated admitting to anything. Yuuri thought of him less and less as the years wore on. But every spring, he found himself thinking on the other Yuri for a moment._

_Because after the springtime with Yuri's echoing shouts ended, the summer with his parents falling ill began._

_Every spring, Yuuri wished he could be reborn, go back to the last spring his parents lived, and never let it end._

_“Yuuri, I feel quite neglected,” said his tutor. “You are right here, and yet you are not. Is there nothing I can say to tether you here, to warm your thoughts?”_

_“I'm sorry, master,” said Yuuri, shaking himself a little and standing to stretch._

_His teacher was oddly silent for a moment. Then his teacher's voice burst forth as if he were standing at the door. “I know! Yuuri, dance for me. Dancing always clears your mind. And watching you dance clears mine—not a coherent thought stays in my head!”_

_Yuuri stopped stretching, suddenly feeling stiff as a board. He remembered Nishigori admitting to a similar feeling watching Yuuko dance. “Ah, master?” he said, nearly hiccuping. “You might not want to say such things. It may only be us here now, but if you said as much in Celestino's hearing . . .”_

_“I don't fear Celestino,” his master answered, tone light and blithe. “I only fear you ignoring me. Which you have been doing most of the day.”_

_Yuuri felt a little penitent and very confused. His master seemed to have completely missed Yuuri's point. “I will try to be more present, if you will try not to say things easily misconstrued.”_

_Again, that odd stretch of silence. “Misconstrued? Yuuri, nothing I say can be misconstrued.”_

_“But—” Yuuri began._

_“Tell me things about yourself I don't know,” his teacher interrupted. “Make me feel like I actually am standing by your side.”_

_“But you've known me for a decade,” said Yuuri. “You know practically everything about me. You know my fears and hopes. You're my teacher.”_

_“No I don't know!” His teacher now sounded very petulant indeed. “I don't know why you're distant today. I don't know why you insist on using the_ shogi _screen to change. I don't know why you think what I say could be misconstrued. I don't know what will arrest your attention or make you accept me.”_

_Yuuri felt overwhelmed. “Accept you? But I accepted your teaching soon after I met you, didn't I?”_

_“Ye gods.” His teacher's voice grew soft. “It's because you've known me so long, isn't it? You can't see me any differently now than you did ten years ago. I'm like a disembodied fairy godmother to you, aren't I?”_

_“I don't know what is upsetting you, but please believe me, teacher. I don't take you for granted. I'm very lucky to have you for a mentor.”_

_“Yuuri, how can you be so kind and yet so cruel? You will make me lose my appetite and color and start sighing the day away, at this rate!”_

_Yuuri took a calming breath. “That. What you just said, master. That could be misconstrued.”_

_His master sighed so heavily, Yuuri half-expected the screen to fall over on top of him._

_“Oh.” Suddenly, his master's voice was tired. “I see. You don't know everything about me, either. That concludes our lesson.”_

_Yuuri spent the rest of the day in a fog, confused as to how he hurt his master, and wishing he could just spend five more minutes with his parents. Just five._

_That night, Yuuri found a red rose with a silver ribbon on his pillow, left in the same fashion that this character left a rose for his love in the opera script. Then Yuuri first thought, perhaps his master had been trying to tell him something all day in his own way. Yuuri couldn't fathom what his teacher must see in him._

_It strained credulity that his master wasn't just making this another game to amuse. His master was fond of games, and fond of winning them, too, that much Yuuri knew for certain. Yuuri supposed he and his master would have to spend more time getting to know each other after all._

Now parting from the memory as if parting from a dream, Yuuri found himself wanting to twirl an invisible rose between his fingertips. _Ye gods,_ he thought. _It's actually taken me a year to understand what was truly on Victor's mind in that conversation._

* * *

Victor hoped that his challenge about Yuuri's relationship, that Yuuri's anger at the drowning of his childhood mementos, would draw Yuuri a little closer. Victor's hope, in this moment at least, was answered: Yuuri stepped forward and looked up, staring Victor dead in the eyes. “He knows I want my freedom on my own terms.” 

_Damn him_. Victor's gloved fingers itched to strangle something, _anything_. He settled for running a hand through his silver hair. Of course Yuuri would see something impossible and absurd in Victor's rival for his affections. Only the dead were free from all tethers; life was bondage to breathing and all that came with it. You either bound someone, or were bound yourself. “Oh,” he laughed out. “And so he says a few pretty words to grant you your liberty, and make you feel independent?” 

“My freedom is not his to grant,” Yuuri said, surprising Victor with how his voice lowered with anger. “I make my terms, he makes his, we accept.” 

“Well isn't he so magnanimous a gentleman,” Victor seethed, almost ready to pluck the pearls off the wedding gown's skirt to vent his frustration. “You can commend him for me-- _if_ he ever makes it down here, because I am certainly never relinquishing you.” 

“You'll have no joy in me if you stifle me,” said Yuuri. Now his voice sounded dull and resentful. Those brown eyes were boring into Victor's soul with an empty horror. 

“You underestimate the joy of prevailing,” said Victor. He lived for making his will an immovable force. Part of him was still riding the elation of the opera house had emptying beneath a crashing chandelier. 

“You call this prevailing?” 

Victor very much resented Yuuri's raised brow and sardonic tone. Yuuri was getting altogether too rebellious. Almost like a brief reappearance of the almost viperine audacity which possessed Yuuri while on the stage earlier. 

“I'm still here,” said Victor. “In spite of everything. So, yes. I am prevailing.” A sudden thought occurred to him, a surefire way to knock Yuuri off-balance. He paced in a circle for a while, skirts swishing, before he stopped to command Yuuri's attention. 

“Yuuri,” he said. “What did you whisper to the Vicomte on the roof the other day?” 

Yuuri stared at him, aghast, as if Victor had morphed into horrific creature in a space of a heartbeat. “You were there?” 

“Indeed,” said Victor, smiling. He didn't care if the venom he felt seeped into his smile. “And I heard every word, save when you whispered with your foreheads together. What did you tell him?” 

He watched as Yuuri clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I told him I was going to write a song and choreograph a dance for him. About him.” 

“He needs no such attention,” said Victor, waving a hand dismissively, as trying to brush all thought of Yuri out of existence. “He's a lordling, he already has plenty of people to coddle him. You, Yuuri, can focus on me. We're all we have.” 

And he continued his song to remind Yuuri of what he had survived for years, before Yuuri came into his life. 

_Hounded out by everyone!_  
_Met with hatred everywhere!_  
_No kind word from anyone!_  
_No compassion anywhere!_  
_Yuuri, Yuuri._  
_Why, why ...?_

“I can't tell you, Victor, if I don't know what the story is behind your scars,” said Yuuri. 

Victor's voice was lost for the moment. He couldn't tell Yuuri his question was more directed at society at large, rather than Yuuri himself. 

They both lifted their heads at the sound of incensed shouting and jeering. Victor was almost amused; apparently the hired muscles were trying to drum up courage to follow after them. Victor shot a knowing look to Yuuri. What a well-timed reminder of how, no matter what, Victor was beset by the unforgiving. 

Victor had a very proper welcome prepared for anyone stupid enough to interrupt his time with Yuuri in his own domain. Gathering the full (perhaps too full) skirts in one hand, he swept across the cavern to snatch up a whetstone, the corner of his eye fixed on Yuuri all the while. He returned to seat himself on a cushion a few paces away from where Yuuri stood, arms crossed. The hoop skirt gave him a bit of trouble, but Victor eventually figured out how to sit at an angle. 

The roughness of the stone calmed Victor somewhat as he weighed it in his hands. Then he coolly took one of his blades, from the pocket he had created along a seam of the skirt. He started sharpening. 

Yuuri grew even more stiff, if that was possible. For the first time since the play, he, too, began to sing. 

_Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?_  
_Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?_

Victor quickly, quietly set both blade and whetstone down on the floor. After a bit of rustling and a couple false starts, he drew himself to his feet again and paced toward Yuuri. 

_That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood,_  
_Has also denied me the joys of the flesh._  
_This face, the infection which poisons our love._  
_This face, which earned all others' fear and loathing._  
_A mask, my cursed, unfeeling scrap of clothing._  
_Pity comes too late - turn around_  
_And face your fate:_  
_An eternity of this before your eyes!_

He stared at Yuuri, daring him to flinch away from the scars marring his face. Yuuri looked a little pained, but Victor could tell it wasn't because of what he saw. Yuuri stepped back and spread his arms. 

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now._  
_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies._

And then Yuuri was pacing back and forth, limb and tongue both fluid as he spoke. “Victor, I will continue to be candid. You fascinate me, even now. Before, you opened up my world to endless possibilities.” 

Yuuri gazed around at the chips of mock ice glittering in every crevice of the cavern, a softness, almost fondness in his eyes. As if every shard could represented a cherished memory, or so Victor liked to think. “You made me feel as if history was mine to write in my wake,” Yuuri went on. “All was gold- and silver-hued around you. You meant so much, you still do, but what you've done . . . 

“Victor, can I ever show you just how demoralizing it is to see you for a maelstrom of venom and decay? You broke my heart a little, Victor.” 

“You managed to thoroughly break mine,” said Victor, gloved fingers giving up and worrying the pearls sewn in to skirt of the wedding gown. “Have you any idea how much _you_ mean to me?” 

“I'd call you obsessed,” said Yuuri, back straightening. Victor was all-too-aware how well Don Juan's ensemble suited him, even if it was a trifle too big. Yuuri could look resplendent in a swatch of burlap. 

“Even that is rather mild,” said Victor, breaking into a brief, ironic smile. “I've spent more time with you than everyone else in my life combined now. You gave me a reason to foster structure and purpose in my life while you were a child. I never really got to play in my childhood, but you showed me what it might have been like. 

"And once you'd grown, you showed me what it is to love. I've never really cared about anyone besides the dog, until you, Yuuri. I don't think you realize how unusual that is, for me.” 

It took Yuuri several tries to ask his next question, face growing redder by the second. “When did you stop looking at me as just your student?” 

Victor removed the white gloves on his hands, slapping them down along the edge of the rock-grafted piano. “How was I supposed to track a subtle, mysterious thing like that? You can't check your heart like you check your pulse! I don't know when it started, but I knew I was aware a few months after your twentieth birthday. The day that you smiled upon me and showed me a dance you had choreographed yourself to surprise Yuuko. It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever witnessed.” 

Now Yuuri blanched, the color draining from him at an alarming rate. Victor wanted to know what thoughts Yuuri was entertaining, but he had never been worse at reading Yuuri than he was now. Victor thought he saw Yuuri's fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his leg as Victor continued. 

* * *

“I wasn't entirely sure of my feelings, though,” Victor was saying, “since I had _nothing_ to compare them to.”

Yuuri had a hard time keep his own thoughts and feelings in check. He could not believe that Victor had been worshiping and pining for this long. It was unthinkable, and yet memories were surfacing to prove that Victor's claim rang true. 

Victor went on, “You confounded me so much, Yuuri. So I waited two years, read poetry and novels and plays and operas on love. Finally, I felt certain that, yes, what I felt rivaled or surpassed every passion I had read.”

 _No wonder you are so dramatic,_ Yuuri thought.

Victor strode forward, closing the gap completely between them for the first time since they embraced performing Victor's opera. They stood almost nose-to-nose.

“I don't think I would have waited two years if you reciprocated my feelings,” Victor went on. “But you never treated me as anything other than family. So for some time I grappled. But as soon as I knew my own heart, I tried to tell you. Over. And over. And over again. 

“My first attempt was, admittedly, very poorly arranged. I do not blame you for not knowing my purpose. What fool tries to construct a mock castle in a bedroom? How were you supposed to see that, and conclude that I wanted to be your knight? That I wanted to create a castle for you to stay with me, forever. Such is the naivete of a man of thirty-two trying to learn to woo his first love.”

Yuuri remembered the mock castle that sprang up in his bedroom well. Even now, it was puzzling. Fairy tales were endearing because they helped you cope with reality when you went back to it. They weren't meant to replace reality.

More shouts, vaguely threatening but without any distinct words, filtered down from up above. Yuuri thought they sounded louder than before. But still not quite as loud as his own heartbeat. Now he knew, he meant even more to Victor than he had realized, and escape seemed less and less likely.

“So what are you planning, Victor?” he asked, stepping back a pace and crossing his arms once more. “We'll just stay down here forever? What about food? Clothing? Pen and paper? Surely you don't have a lifetime's supply stowed away.”

Victor shot him a look that chilled Yuuri's blood, especially since Yuuri was within arm's length. “I have enough to last until we have no more need of this place.”

 _That's not comforting at all_ , Yuuri thought. But he decided now he must hold his peace. Victor may still have a soft spot for him, but Victor seemed agitated enough to forget himself now. Also, there were the strange, angular knives . . .

“You're too quiet, Yuuri.”

 _So much for silence,_ Yuuri thought. “Victor,” said Yuuri, trying to keep his tone even but gentle with great effort. “What is the story behind your scars?” He hoped that Victor was still in a mood to share his innermost thoughts.

“What do you want me to say, Yuuri?” Victor bustled back to the cushion where he laid down the knife and whetstone. He kicked the cushion irritably, then crouched down to snatch up the knife and whetstone and return to Yuuri. “That some terrible event scored my face and soul at the same time?” He gestured vaguely at the scarred half of his face with the whetstone. “That I'm the product of some miserable twist of fate?” He flicked the knife blade through the air, as if he were bidding fate keep her distance. “Or that I sullied my own soul and marked my own face, like the biblical Cain? What narrative suits you best?”

“Stop it, Victor.” Yuuri could not take his eyes off the blade. It looked like it had been clumsily cobbled to the wooden handle. “I don't want you to spin some metaphoric tale. I want what really happened.”

“Obviously I must spin _something_ , Yuuri. You're dissatisfied with me as I am,” said Victor. He tapped the flat of the blade against his lips. “There is no pleasing you. If I tell you what you're asking, you will blame more more than if I lied to your face.

“I've half a mind to scar _your_ face, just to see how much you judge my hatred of the world then.”

“I don't begrudge you the cruelty you've endured, only cruelty you inflict!” Yuuri retorted. He regretted the heated anger in his tone instantly, as Victor tapped the flat of the blade against Yuuri's lips next. Yuuri froze, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms and legs underneath the black fabric. He saw a faint smudge of rouge mar his reflection where the blade had touched. He wanted to wipe the rouge and the cool feeling of metal off his lips.

“Ah, there you go,” said Victor airily, “ascending the moral high ground of a child, too little time spent in this world to have known temptation's depths. You would forgive me my faults, if my face were not one of my flaws. If I offered you money and social status, like that little Vicomte.”

“Leave Yuri out of this!” said Yuuri. “And do you think I wasn't tempted to join my parents six feet under, Victor?”

Victor stopped pacing, letting fistfuls of the wide, snowy skirt fall down. He grew still as the focus of a portrait, staring at Yuuri. “Was that . . . just a passing thought as a child, Yuuri?” he asked, voice dipping into that strange, false cheer. But he didn't move.

Yuuri did not answer. He was already regretting admitting to thinking of it even once, admitting such a sadness in front of Victor, of all people.

* * *

Victor waited for Yuuri to assure him, to put the sudden, cold fear snaking through his insides to rest. Victor had not been familiar with true fear for many years, not since he first made use of his blades.

Yuuri merely looked away.

“Damn your stubborn reserve, kicking in all of a sudden!” Victor exclaimed, surging up to Yuuri and shaking him by the shoulders. Yuuri had to stare at him now. “Have you felt that kind of melancholy recently? Answer me, Yuuri! I must know. Tell me that is a thing of the past, or I shall lash myself to your side till my last breath, lest your last breath come first.”

“I have not been that low for a decade,” said Yuuri, molten eyes chiding Victor for wrenching such a confession. “Not since the night you first accompanied one of my prayers in the chapel with song.”

Victor took a long, shuddering breath. Of all the things Yuuri had uttered, this was by far the most devastating. How could, why would Yuuri try to draw away from Victor, if this was what Victor meant to him? And why had he never told Victor? By all rights, Yuuri should be the one trying to cajole Victor to stay close, not the reverse.

Hands trembling, no doubt with the force of dark memories, Yuuri paced back and forth before Victor.

* * *

Yuuri tried to keep moving, hoping to subdue his restless agitation somehow. More and more, he felt that if he didn't try to escape soon, he may not have a chance. He didn't think his chances good anyway. But he didn't put it past Victor to chloroform him and escape.

 _How long will Victor wait? Is Victor confident he can keep the first trespassers at bay?_ Yuuri asked himself. He stared at his feet, desperately trying to strategize.

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri raised his head and looked at Victor.

“I will tell you about the scars,” said Victor. “But you must promise to hear me out till the end.”

“I will hear your story,” said Yuuri. But he was wondering if Victor was trying to distract or delay him.

Victor sat down gingerly along the piano seat and awkwardly arranged the full skirt to drape besides him. Yuuri's lips quirked; Yuri was evidently faster at adapting to frocks than Victor was.

“As a child in Russia, I used to skate on frozen ponds,” Victor began. His voice was hollow and lifeless, and his eyes clouded with bygone places. “I could skate, but not swim, not then. Once, a playmate pushed me out onto thin ice, and laughed when I fell through and panicked and sank. He fished me out, still laughing.

“I kicked him with my skates, over and over. His legs got bloody, and soon the ice was wet with splashes of red and pink. He overpowered me, peeled off one of his skates, and pressed it to one side of my face, over and over. He left me lying on the ice crying.

“But then he fell through another patch of thin ice. I didn't help him up. He fished himself out, and lay shivering on the ice. I shivered, too, but I was still burning with rage. I jerked that same skate off his foot, then I stabbed his neck with the blade. Once for each time he marked my face. To this day, I don't know if he lived or died.

“I fled with a traveling peddler who knew me. The first thing I did when spring arrived was learn to swim. The second thing I did was remove the blades from my skates and fit them with custom handles. The third thing I did was join a princess' court retinue, part jester, part bodyguard.”

Yuuri found himself pacing before he knew he was even in motion. Even as a child, Victor had been more than capable of taking life. 

And now he wanted Yuuri to stay with him for the duration of his life. Yuuri didn't dare try to imagine what such a life might be like.

Yuuri's limbs stopped working when he heard the splashing. His eyes rose in time with Victor's, and they stared as two dogs and a young man in soggy homespun clothes tramped and paddled through the water.

Victor just smirked gleefully in Yuuri's direction.

 _Wait! I think, my dear, we have a guest!_  
_Sir, this is indeed an unparalleled delight!_

Makkachin barked happily upon seeing her master. She picked up speed, sloshing past Yuri.

“Yuri!” Yuuri yelled at the Vicomte. “You shouldn't have come! Go back now, while you can!”

“If you're here, I'm here!” Yuri yelled back.

Victor lifted the full skirt with one hand and skittered to yank on a rope near the one edge of the cavern. A portcullis lowered itself slowly behind Yuri.

“Get back, quick!” Yuuri was practically begging now, pacing by the water's edge. “Just because I'm trapped here doesn't mean that you—”

But Yuri crossed his arms and glared. The portcullis clanged shut, the sound muffled by water, but still sending chills up Yuuri's spine.

Makkachin reached Victor, and he petted her as he sang.

 _I had rather hoped that you would come._  
_And now my wish comes true - you have truly made my night!_

“Aren't you a little under-dressed?” Victor asked, gleefully taking in the sight of Yuri the Vicomte, for once, in ill-fitting homespun garb. Makkachin snorted water from her nose and surged away in quest of Yuuri several paces away. 

Victor, heedless of the tiered skirts about his ankles, stepped into the water. He held a coil of rope in one hand and one of those strange blades in another, striding slowly toward Yuri. Yuri was still standing almost chest-deep in the water, portcullis at his back.

Yuri bared his teeth. “I would've changed into the pink gown I wore to the masquerade, had I been told this was an occasion.”

Victor's nostrils flared, and his breathing stuttered with realization. He trailed the blade through the water. “You. You were dancing with Yuuri, before I made my presence known.”

Yuri smirked, and could not resist tossing his hair _almost_ subtly. “Oh, you didn't realize that was me?” he asked. “Yes, it was, and Yuuri's still engaged for four more dances with me, thanks to your little interruption.”

“Only four?” Yuuri piped up. He smiled briefly at the Vicomte over Makkachin as he scratched behind her ears, hoping her presence would steel his nerves.

Victor scowled as he carefully put one foot before the other, annoyed that the two of them could speak of dancing at a time like this. He stopped a few feet ahead of Yuri, letting him fidget with the knowledge that charging ahead meant Victor would either slit him or choke him.

Not bothering to turn around from his staring contest with Yuri, Victor called out to his student, “Well, darling? If this guest is unwelcome to you, I will permit him to leave . . . if you promise to stand by my side.”

Yuuri subtly took a couple steps closer to the rope attached to the portcullis, then resumed scratching Makkachin when she padded after him. “Victor, please! Leave him out of this!” There was only one thing Victor wanted to hear from Yuuri. But he wouldn't say what Victor wanted until he had exhausted all other options.

“Take me in his place,” said Yuri, blue-green eyes daring Victor to refuse. “You don't have the damn time to wheedle Yuuri into escaping with you. Or to chloroform him again and drag him along. I will go with you, even help you get out of here. Then you can do what you like to me. Just let Yuuri go free.”

“What are you doing?” Yuuri cried, all thoughts of subtly promptly fleeing his mind. He stood up suddenly, hands clenching into fists at his side. Makkachin whined and snuffed his ankles, but he barely noticed. “How dare you, Yuri Plisetsky! Better for me to stay with—”

“I cannot bear the thought of you living your life caged,” said Yuri simply.

“You can and you should,” said Yuuri, shaking with the force of his emotions. Victor turned to look at him, and Yuuri had never seen the blue eyes look more calculating. It made him shake all the more. “I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me! He will kill you, Yuri. You're not dying if I have anything to say on the matter.”

Victor turned to smirk at Yuri and took a step closer to him.

“Victor, please accept my terms,” said Yuuri.

Victor turned back to Yuuri, brows raised. “ _Your_ terms?” he slanted his head to the side, amazed that Yuuri was proposing a third solution. His silver hair shifted and spilled over his shoulder.

Yuuri ground his teeth and tried to stop shaking as he stepped into the water. He trudged forward along in quest of Victor, ripples fleeing him as if they wanted no part in this lunacy.

“Freedom for him, and freedom for me. Those are my terms,” he said, hands on hips as he stood before Victor with murky water up to their waists. “I will let you keep my mother's ring. I will let you keep my handkerchief from the time I first came here. And I will give you this token of my regard. A thank you for all that you have done for me, and all you have meant to me.”

And then Yuuri sang.

 _Pitiful creature of darkness..._  
_What kind of life have you known?_  
_God give me courage to show you you are not alone..._

Yuuri closed to the distance between himself and a shell-shocked Victor. He kissed Victor with all the sadness, all the gratitude, all the wonder which was choking Yuuri from the inside out. It was Yuuri's way of closing the door, of making a final break with his mentor, his muse, and his memories.

When they parted, both Victor and Yuuri were crying. Yuuri traced his fingers along the furrowed scars along Victor's cheekbone.

“Please, Victor.”

But the blue eyes did not soften as Yuuri had hoped and gambled they would. As Yuuri's fingertips drew away from his face, Victor's hand closed around Yuuri's knuckles, holding them against the coil of rope.

“Why would I give you up after a display like that?” Victor asked. “No, Yuuri. You don't get to make a deal. You accept mine, or you accept the Vicomte's death.”

For a split second, Yuuri considered digging in his heels and trying to snatch the blade from Victor. Victor seemed to think Yuuri would strive as well, subtly shifting his stronger leg back and angling the blade still hanging from his hand at his hip.

But Yuuri only took two steps backwards. Victor let Yuuri's fingers slip out of his grasp.

“Well, Yuuri?” Victor prompted.

“Option four, if you please, Opera Ghost!” A voice Yuuri didn't know thundered through the cavern. Three sets of eyes swiveled to follow the sound of barking behind them. The smaller poodle was padding in frustration up and down along the outside of the portcullis. Makkachin barked back. A man with a long, soaked black coat and impeccable black hair pointed a handgun through the bars, straight at Victor's head.

The armed man went on, “Either I kill you now, and my friend and his lover leave unscathed. Or they leave unscathed first. And then I punch you. And _then_ you leave with a black eye and your life.”

“Otabek,” Yuri croaked out, grinning from ear to ear.

Yuuri had no idea who this formidable stranger was, but anyone who wanted to protect Yuri was a godsend in his eyes. He turned his gaze to Victor. Victor was staring at Yuuri as if he wanted to say goodbye, and then try to end Yuri's life anyway. As if he would never wound his pride by submitting to defeat and skulking away to live in hiding.

“Victor! Please, Victor,” said Yuuri, taking another step back in case Victor decided to try to grab him instead. “Let this be a draw, and leave. Don't make me lose anyone else.”

And then, for one bewitching moment, Victor understood Yuuri perfectly. The blue eyes widened with the assurance that Victor still mattered to Yuuri. Yuuri didn't want him to die, even after everything. Yuuri wanted him safe and well, even if he hadn't chosen him.

Shouts of the hired muscle rang out again, and Yuuri could swear they were much closer than before. He definitely heard Popovich and Jean-Jacques among the rest.

“I will accept your terms—except you will lay no hand on me!” Victor yelled over his shoulder at the man Yuri called Otabek.

Without waiting to hear Otabek's reply, Victor cast both rope and blade aside. He said nothing to Yuri.

To Yuuri, he simply whispered, “ _Au revoir_. Live, and think of me fondly.” As he cradled the ring on a chain around his neck, Victor trudged in the waterlogged wedding dress all the way over to the edge by the rope and hauled himself up. Yuuri yanked Yuri free of the ropes just before Victor yanked the portcullis up again.

Yuri threw his arms around Yuuri, but Yuuri did not return the embrace. He merely pressed his lips against Yuri's temple and said, “Don't think I'm going to forgive you quickly for being so reckless.”

He pulled away to wave at Victor—but Victor and Makkachin were gone. Yuuri wasn't sure if he felt more relief or loss. Quickly he strode against the water to make it over to the gondola, seizing the pole in one hand and an edge of the gondola in the other. He beckoned over to Yuri and Otabek. Otabek had Yuri in a strangling hug with his free arm, the hand with the gun resting at his side. Yuuri smirked faintly, no doubt Yuri was getting a scathing lecture from his friend. And in that moment, Yuuri decided he liked Otabek very much indeed.

Yuri maneuvered out of Otabek's grasp and together they waded up to the gondola. The little poodle paddled past them and flung himself at Yuuri.

“Thank you, boy, for leading help to us,” Yuuri whispered into the dog's fur, before scooping him into the gondola and stepping in himself.

Yuri untied the gondola, and together he and Otabek scrambled aboard. Yuuri pushed them off and demonstrated to Yuri how to use the pole to propel them in a straight path. It reminded him of how Yuri had taught him to drive the horse-drawn cart. Once Yuri had the technique down, Yuuri turned to Otabek and squeezed him into a crushing hug. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Otabek pried him off, looking bemused at all the hugging that had happened in the last five minutes. “Certainly,” he said, tone stiff, but Yuuri could still tell by the look in his eyes that he was relieved.

Yuuri looked back at the glittering cavern, wishing that he had the time to sift along the bottom of the drink for the treasures Victor had cast aside. He glanced at his father's ring hanging about Yuri's neck, grateful that heirloom was still here to stay.

"It's a little late for introductions," said Yuri, "but Otabek, this is my . . . this is Yuuri Katsuki. And Yuuri, this is my friend and self-proclaimed guardian angel, Capitaine Otabek Atlin."

Otabek bowed to Yuuri, as much as he could without upsetting the gondola. Yuuri nodded in return. _Yuri's guardian angel, indeed,_ he thought.

In a few moments, the cavern was well behind them, and Yuuri felt inexplicably cold. Water splashed up ahead, and Yuri laughed at the sight of Popovich and Jean-Jacques swimming before the hired soldiers on rickety rafts. Like two penguins in front of a battered armada.

Only now did Otabek quietly hide his gun.

“Yuuri!” Jean-Jacques crowed. He reached the gondola first, gripping the side, but nothing more, lest he overturn them. “You're all well, I trust?”

Yuuri nodded, and Yuri snorted.

Popovich gripped the gondola on the other side. “Thank heaven! Where's the Opera Ghost?”

“He disappeared, as ghosts do,” Yuri ground out. “How is the fire?”

“Contained, and nearly stifled,” said Popovich, peeling off his soaked gloves. “It should be out by the time we get back.”

Otabek leaned over to Yuuri to speak quietly. “Victor may circle back after a while. In a month, a year, a decade. Be vigilant.”

“Victor?” Jean-Jacques repeated, blinking water out of his eyes. He had ears far too sharp for his own good.

Yuuri jerked his head toward the poodle sniffing Popovich's fingers. “I call him Victor. Vicchan for short.”

Otabek and Yuri glanced at him sidelong, and held their peace. Yuri slowly pushed the gondola along. The rafting hired muscle waved to them as they passed them, intent on finding the Opera Ghost's lair and turning it upside-down. Yuuri reveled in the quiet hanging at the end of a long day and evening, listening to the melody hidden in the steady dripping of the water off the hem of Otabek's coat.

He started humming his mother's favorite traditional Japanese song. Yuri hummed along with him.

In that moment, Yuuri felt like writing a song for Yuri to sing. Preferably a song apologizing for making Yuuri so goddamned worried about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! Many thanks once again. Writers: do make yourselves write. Even if it's only five minutes. Still better for your soul than letting your ideas fester in your mind.
> 
> The term _playboy_ , as we use it, started as slang in the early 1800s. It was originally coined in the early 1600s to describe boy actors. The term _six feet under_ is popularly attributed to a London law enacted during a plague outbreak (some internet sites say 1655 and some 1665).
> 
> I just discovered _viperine_ and it is now my new favorite word.
> 
> My primary reason for WeddingGown!Victor: [this fanart](http://onlyou718.tumblr.com/post/153884731970/cuz-this-post-by-vikkturi). Secondary reason: I LOVE how the show gives its male characters both masculine and feminine attributes. So, I wanted to show that fluidity here, metaphorically and literally.
> 
> I threw Otabek in here last minute because 1) Otabek would not be excluded. 2) I firmly believe abusers _do not_ relinquish their victims when the victims show sensitivity. There has to be some other motivation. Hence the double fears of Otabek with a gun and Yuuri with depression. I'm not saying abusers can't change; just that they don't undergo drastic change of heart at the drop of a hat. So the Phantom relenting always bugged me. He gave up when he had the upper hand (*cough* the HIGH GROUND, Anakin *cough*) just because Christine kissed him? Nope. (While we're making Star Wars references, I unconsciously channeled Anakin's YOU TURNED HER AGAINST ME logic with how Victor blamed Yuri for Yuuri's rejection.)
> 
> On to the poll in the next chapter!


	9. POLL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here lie the YOI fics I'm planning to write. Most are Yuuri/Yuri (we need all the fics we can get for this pairing). Chapters will be short, sweet, and sassy. Easier writing for me and faster updates for you.
> 
> Please comment to vote. You can vote for multiple stories and specify your favorite. I'll write the story with the most votes first, and then I'll write second place, then third, etc. (If there's a tie, the one listed as favorite most often will win.)
> 
> Do you prefer a pre-written fic that updates each week? Or a seat-of-your-pants fic that updates randomly? Let me know! 
> 
> I will tally story votes and note update preferences on August 16 at the end of my work shift, then post them as an extra chapter after this one.

**1\. Deliver Us from Dinner Parties**  
Jeeves  & Wooster AU. Russian heirs Nikiforov and Plisetsky navigate 1920's high society in England, with the help of valets Katsuki and Atlin. (Yuuri/Yuri. Slight crack. Projected length: 8 chapters.)

 **2\. Dark Eros**  
Superhero AU. Yuuri Katsuki, millionaire playboy by day, masked avenger by night. The press dubs his night facade Dark Eros. Is he a hero? Villain? Neither? Who knows? (Crack. Absolute crack. Endgame Yuuri/Yuri, with a hint of Victuuri. Both DC and Marvel inspired, with special thanks to [this art.](https://161o.tumblr.com/post/152561643792/%E3%83%8F%E3%83%AD%E3%82%A6%E3%82%A3%E3%83%B3%E3%81%AB%E9%96%93%E3%81%AB%E5%90%88%E3%82%8F%E3%81%AA%E3%81%8B%E3%81%A3%E3%81%9Fharley%E3%83%A6%E3%83%AA%E3%82%AA%E3%81%95%E3%82%93) Projected length: 20 chapters.)

**3\. Dust and Scales**  
1960's urban fantasy AU. Yuri is a palm-sized pixie. Victor is half-merman, half-mortal. Yuuri is 100% mortal and 100% done with their shenanigans. (Mild crack. No pairings, just friendship. Projected length: 5 chapters.) 

**4\. A Midsummer Ice Dream**  
Fairy AU. Victor rushes to finish a new spell for the Fairy King's birthday. The botched spell turns Yuuri and Yuri into fairy children . . . and summons Victor's teenage fairy self from the past. (Crack. No pairings, just friendship. Obviously inspired by art both official and fan-made. Projected length: 3-5 chapters.) 

**5\. A Fairy Weller's Day Off**  
Fairy AU again. Victor is a water fairy, tasked with digging wells and cultivating springs with his magic. But Victor longs to work with water in its frozen form. On his day off, he journeys in search of a mentor in ice magic. (Crack. No pairings. Projected length: 3-5 chapters.) 

**6\. The Company from Mosshaven**  
Lord of the Rings AU. Yuuri, son of Toshiya, known by a few as Katsudon. Known by many as a Ranger of Gondor and a Man of all trades. (Yuuri/Yuri. Projected length: 10-15 chapters.) 

**7\. Nom de Plume**  
Film noir AU. His trusted friends know him as Yuri Plisetsky. His contacts in the film industry and a few observant movie buffs? They only know Yolanda Plume. And by gum, it's going to stay that way! (Genderfluid Yuri. Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. Maybe hints of Otayuri. Projected length: 5-8 chapters.) 

**8\. Last Fortnight in a Parallel Universe**  
Doctor Who AU. A man with silver hair and matching bow-tie gifts Yuuri Katsuki and Yuri Plisetsky with magic roller skates. Look out time, space, and the general multiverses! We were born to . . . avoid making history. (Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. Hints of Victuuri. Projected length: 5-8 chapters.) 

**9\. I Require Pen, Parchment . . . and Pants**  
A Knight's Tale AU. Rival squires Katsuki and Plisetsky compete for knighthood, for sins against historical accuracy, and for Maid Sara's favor. Nothing goes according to penniless writer Nikiforov's plan . . . and Nikiforov keeps losing his pants. (Yuuri/Yuri. Projected length: 8-10 chapters.)

 **10\. Revenge Served Cold**  
Hunger Games AU. The Capitol's puppet drew Yuri Plisetsky's name as tribute. Yuuri Katsuki tried to volunteer in his place, but Victor's hand sealed his lips. (Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. Quite a bit of Victuuri. Projected length: 4-5 chapters.) 

**11\. Palace of Fears**  
Royalty AU. Queen Minako must choose an heir. The people favor Prince Yuuri or Princess Mila. When sabotage threatens Prince Victor and Prince Yuri, Yuuri and Mila join forces to protect their own rivals. (Yuuri/Yuri and Victuuri. Tally of votes in comments will decide endgame pairing. Projected length: 10-15 chapters.) 

**12\. Ice of Immortality**  
Vampire AU. In 1774 London, Victor Nikiforov finds two different Yuris, both melancholy and neglected. He decides to turn them into vampires and adopt them as family. Yuuri Katsuki reacts by sinking into depression. Yuri Plisetsky reacts with blood-drenched rage. (Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. Some Victuuri. Projected length: 5 chapters.) 

**13\. A Sonnet of Ice and Dragons**  
Game of Thrones AU. Yuuri of House Katsuki accidentally wakes a dormant dragon egg. Victor of House Nikiforov, Yuri of House Plisetsky, and their pet direwolves accompany him south to raise the hatchling in secret. (Yuuri/Yuri. Very loose and tame Game of Thrones AU, no sex and very little gore. Projected length: 5 chapters.) 

**14\. Voyages of the Icy Shrew**  
Pirates of the Caribbean AU. Captain Jean-Jacques Leroy recruits Yuuri Katsuki and friends to rescue a maiden, who is trapped by pirates aboard the Bonnie Charlie. (Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. One-sided Victuuri. Projected length: 5 chapters.) 

**15\. Iced Coffee for the Soul(less)**  
Tokyo Ghoul AU. After an emergency organ transplant, Yuuri Katsuki's body is at war with itself. Only staff members at his favorite coffee shop seem to know what to do about it. (Endgame Yuuri/Yuri. Tamer than original TG, but still gory. Projected length: 8-10 chapters.) 

**16\. Dungeons and Djinns: Let's Save the World**  
Magi AU. Nobody is more surprised than Crown Prince Yuuri when the Yuri the Magi chooses him as his formal king candidate. (Yuuri/Yuri. Projected length: 10-12 chapters.) 

**17\. Lord of the Squids**  
Fantasy AU. Fae scouts Victor and Yuri accidentally trespass over hot springs belonging to a shape-shifting sea king. (No pairings. Absolute crack. Projected length: 3 chapters.)


	10. POLL RESULT

By votes alone, for first place there's a tie between Nom de Plume (4), Ice of Immortality (4), and Revenge Served Cold (4). 

By favorites, 3 people listed Revenge Served Cold as #1 pick, and 2 people listed Nom de Plume as #1 pick. 

With 4 votes and 3 favorites, winner is **Revenge Served Cold**!

A big thank you to everybody who voted! I really appreciate it. Projected timing for the first chapter is second week of September, but it may be later because of a move.

Here's the standings and order in which I'll write:

1\. Revenge Served Cold - 4 votes, 3 favorites  
2\. Nom de Plume - 4 votes, 2 favorites  
3\. Ice of Immortality - 4 votes  
4\. I Require Pen, Parchment . . . and Pants - 3 votes, 1 favorite  
5\. Dungeons and Djinns: Let's Save the World - 3 votes  
6\. Dust and Scales - 2 votes  
7\. Dark Eros - 1 vote, 1 favorite  
8\. Last Fortnight in a Parallel Universe - 1 vote  
9\. Iced Coffee for the Soul(less) - 1 vote  
10\. Palace of Fears - 1 vote  
11\. A Sonnet of Ice and Dragons - 1 vote  
12\. Lord of the Squids - 1 vote  
13\. Voyages of the Icy Shrew - 1 vote  
14\. The Company from Mosshaven - 0 votes  
15\. A Midsummer Ice Dream - 0 votes  
16\. Deliver Us from Dinner Parties - 0 votes  
17\. A Fairy Weller's Day Off - 0 votes  


**Author's Note:**

> I have no bloody idea why I'm writing this. I was listening to Avenged Sevenfold's "The Stage" . . . the next thing I know I'm thinking of Phantom of the Opera and Christine Daae and Yuuri and Victor. And how Victor hides half his face with his hair . . . much like the half-mask that Gerard Butler wears as the Phantom in the 2004 movie.
> 
> Somebody save me from my own mind.
> 
> JFYI, Phantom of the Opera means a lot to me. I was hooked ever since I saw the Wishbone episode presenting the kid-friendly version in the 90's. I love the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical (will see it live someday). I have a love-hate relationship with Love Never Dies. (Why is it like a Raoul-bashing fanfic???) I watch the 2004 movie every New Year's like clockwork (Emmy Rossum is a dream, I'm awed how well she handled that role so young). 
> 
> I read the book and hated how it messed with my then-teenage headcanons (book!Phantom was so capricious and petulant, though now I think back on it that really makes sense). I have 3 original characters in 3 original WIPs based on those Phantom headcanons. Maybe I'll finish their stories when I stop reading and writing fanfics.
> 
> I had to look up the male equivalent of prima donna for this. It's primo uomo. Doesn't have the same ring to it at all, somehow.
> 
> IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT PAIRING IS ENDGAME, STOP READING NOW.
> 
> Still here?
> 
> Endgame pairing here is Yuuri K/Yuri P. I am Victuuri all the way in the show. But this fic is going to explore all the things about a dark, controlling, unequal power balance that could have developed in a romantic relationship between mentor and student. (Which was what I was scared stiff about before we got to episode 4 and that glorious beach scene.) Yuri P will be the exact opposite--accepting, respectful, sacrificing, and therefore after a time, Yuuri K will choose the one who lets him be himself and make his own choices.


End file.
